The day is unseasonably hot and languid. The long arms of the pothos skate around the window and reveal leaves that have browned in the summer heat. I consider joining an impromptu trip to the beach. My glass creates a small puddle on the kitchen table.

A familiar piano tune harmonizes with the whirring of the fans staggered around the main floor of this shared home. The small silver-blue fish seem agitated and dart back and forth in their tank. I look down at a note christened by black lipstick.

Everyone gathers downstairs. The heat has risen and the wood of the doors swells. I pace the house searching for something that will pique my interest. I grab a plum from the hanging basket in the kitchen and sink my teeth into the soft fruit. The juice dribbles through my fingers and over my chin.

A pile of ideas is gathering on notes in a wooden box carved with spirals. They wait on the writing table by the window for someone willing to implement them. Outside the camellias flanking the porch are between flowering cycles and carefully plan their next blossoming. The tall candle I lit on Summer Solstice has finally burned down in its glass.