Tonight is the last night of summer, which means absolutely nothing here in the land of eternal sunshine. It's 11:36, the moon's thin silver sliver hangs low in the sky, and a sweaty heat creeps around my leather chair as my hair clings to the back of my perspiring neck. Forget the idiom that warrants women as not sweating but rather glowing--here it's pure, last-night-of-summer sweat. Sure, it's tropical, but it's thirty minutes before Fall and nothing is falling, except for maybe a few transplanted shower trees from India, a beautiful sight, nonetheless.
No, I won't be buying a new sweater anytime soon, but it's the last night of summer and the pikake flower, cousin of the night-blooming jasmine, wafts heavy through my window and settles here with me in this quiet, waxing crescent of nightfall.