Heat Transfer

Emily Polson

I sit in the hot tub at Eliana’s boyfriend’s Brooklyn hotel with her and Jon, the guy I think might soon be my boyfriend. We left Rockaway Beach to come here, where the 100°F water bubbles over my sunburned body, trapping in the heat. Jon says I should take a cold shower to stop the burning, otherwise it can worsen over a period of up to twenty-four hours. Even though his EMT license is expired, I’ll assume the advice holds up. But right now, I just want to sit next to him in this hot tub, the steam rising to mingle with the sweat on my face.

I bring a hand out of the tub and let the cool air hit it, though the relief is less than I expect. Heat hangs in the air, too. Then I flashback to high school science class—cold doesn’t exist, does it? It’s just the sensation of absence. I wipe the perspiration from my face with a damp, wrinkled palm, then drop my hand back into the water, place it over a jet and hold it there, against the pressure, until I can’t take it anymore.

I’ve lost the conversation. Jon and Eliana are old friends talking about someone they both know but I don’t. Fog fills my brain, and I am only half here, half listening.

“Yeah, he dated that girl for two months,” Jon says.

I dip out again, distracted by the thought: Jon and I have been going out for two months, does that mean we’re dating?

He looks at me, our eye contact a brief conversation. He scoots closer. His hand finds mine under the water, squeezes it. Our warm arms press up against each other, and I can’t tell if there’s a heat transfer or if we’ve already reached an equilibrium.

Emily Polson holds a BFA in creative writing from Belhaven University and has been published in Catfish Creek, Book Riot, and the Brogue. Originally from central Iowa, she now lives in Brooklyn and works in book publishing. @emilycpolson.