We seem to have been delivered, however briefly, from the suffocating heat and humidity that have tormented us for the past few days. During the afternoon a robust frontal boundary made its way Gothamward across the Keystone and Garden States, and at about 5:30 or so the sky turned as black as an old bruise, the heavens burst asunder, and a cataract of rain pelted the sizzling sidewalks with such force that it bounced knee-high. I’m sure that in our northern suburbs, and other places where trees can live, many were blown down — and doubtless there are those in such leafy districts who are without electrical power as a result — but here in the city the relief is palpable, and I am sure I speak for many others when I say that after another day or two of the weather we’ve just had, Death himself, in any but his most appalling forms, would have been greeted warmly at the door.
I’ve spent thirty summers in New York City, and know beyond hope that this is just the fleetingest lull, a moment’s ease whose purpose is only to enhance the effect when Torquemada seizes his instruments once again. But hey, we’ll take it.