It was all in an effort to fortify ourselves. Mezzi rigatoni with garden tomato and tuna.
So often, we fortify ourselves with pasta.
We sat down to the table. Our usual spots. Clinking forks. Ice water. Lots of ice water.
"I started the Grana." I said.
I didn't have to tell him. He knew without me even saying a word.
"Do we have to water tonight?" I asked.
"Yes." He said.
A feeling of dread. I knew we had to water. I guess I was hoping he'd say otherwise.
Even the sun struggled to set. It seemed to be pressing down with all its might. Dispersing a heavy, muggy, sticky, mass of heat. Inside the house, with a fan circulating the air being pushed out by the cooling box, my lungs felt heavy. Filled with cotton. Anxiety over the weather. When would it break? This is not good.
When the last of the dishes were rinsed and set to dry, we closed the fan, and headed out to our stations. Roberto took to watering the garden. I took to watering the flowers.
The sweat was immediate, but it was a sign of proper hydration in which I took comfort.
When finished, we headed back inside to replenish ourselves with water. Lots of ice water.