The night air is this weird mix between muggy warm and comfortably cool. The street lights are on. You’re in your room but you can hear the faint buzz of free to air TV playing from where your parents are watching. The screen door is letting the distinct smell of spring dying and summer blooming into the house. It’s a smell you can’t quite name but still remember fondly; being pushed around by the ceiling fan. You’ll leave the door open for as long as possible to keep the house from being too stuffy. The pets are asleep under the murky mustard glow of the ceiling lights that have a spotted collection of flys at the bottom of them. The soft reminisce of dinner is still in parts of the house. Everytime you walk past a window or the door you hear the loud singing of the cicadas. For some reason it reminds you of primary school and glow sticks. Ah, you think, Christmas is coming.
