My refrigerator harbored eggs that were best by May 12, the package told me, but I scrambled three for dinner anyway and they weren't too bad. Not good, but not too bad. I made toast from the loaf of French bread I bought at Safeway Saturday, but it didn't taste very good either. While I usually don't drink beer with breakfast, even when breakfast is at midnight, this time I did, and that's a good thing because the Sierra Nevada porter was as good as ever. It made up for the disappointment.
So Sunday went by as Sundays do, and in the afternoon I felt very sleepy and took a nap, which to my surprise ended before nine o'clock, but it left me with the usual melancholy I get when I wake anytime near or after sunset. There might have been disturbing dreams, but I recall nothing of them— just a vague unease that often trails in the wake of a forgotten nightmare.
It got pretty warm Sunday, and Monday will be even warmer. Pushing 100 degrees, in fact. It got up to 79 in the apartment, and though the fan has been on for hours, it's still 73. I'm sure that Monday will require the use of the air conditioner. Later in the week it gets hotter, peaking at a projected 104 on Thursday. The hell days are here. The next few nights are expected to have lows of 71. Why didn't I let that damned virus kill me before I had to go through this?