It’s a perfect night for sleeping outside. I told my husband so, but he said I was crazy.
Why would you want to do that?
I dunno. Fresh air? A chance to be swallowed by the night sky? To watch the Perseids?
I spend all day at work on a computer. Craving the aboriginal—dreamtime in suburbia—is nothing if not an act of psychic survival.
I flatten a sleeping bag on the sun chair, plump a buckwheat pillow. I hear my husband now, snoring through the open window above me. I unzip my down wrapping, find carbon-free climate control by slipping my foot into the cool August night.