7/3/25 Cicadas, Breeze, and a Summer Story (2023)

Today, the power went out in my house, and my phone had no signal.

The air was so hot and heavy that I could hardly breathe. I decided to walk to my favorite café.

Even the traffic lights on the street weren’t working—maybe the whole neighborhood was having issues due to the heat.

I’m not usually someone with a short temper, but on days like this, I often feel a restless fire inside me. It’s not the kind of fire that burns with passion or creation; instead, it feels trapped, smoldering in my chest, turning into an uncomfortable irritation.

But today, as I walked, I consciously slowed down.

I paid attention to every leaf, every faint breeze. I let my fingers brush gently over the red foxtail grass by the roadside.

As I walked, the heat became unbearable. I bought a large bottle of ice-cold water, drinking it while pressing the cold bottle against my skin, the condensation mixed with my sweat.

I noticed a big dog lying lazily in the shade in front of a shop. There was a large bone with bits of meat still on it, but the dog didn’t even lift its head—too focused on enjoying its siesta.

When I reached the crosswalk (although there were no working traffic lights—I was just waiting for the first car to stop and let me pass), a familiar wave of heat took me back to a summer night two years ago.

Back then, I didn’t speak Spanish. I would often go alone to random milongas.

In a milonga without air conditioning in La Boca, I met Antu.

Our first cabeseo had a spark.

I loved dancing with him, loved to feel him, loved his embrace.

In that first tanda, I felt his energy—soft like the moon, yet burning like the sun.

One night, we went to a milonga together, along with my friend Chang Chang, an exchange student who spoke Spanish fluently.

The three of us walked down Corrientes, with Chang Chang as our translator.

She helped us navigate our mixed conversations of Chinese and Spanish:

Shikin: “Look, the leaf is about to fall, yet it lingers on the branch, reluctant to let go. But in its heart, it’s already dancing with the wind.”

Antu: “You know, there’s a song that goes like this:

Todas las hojas son del viento, Ya que él las mueve hasta en la muerte, Todas las hojas son del viento, Menos la luz del sol, menos la luz del sol.”

When I first met Antu, I remember a brief conversation at a milonga:

Shikin: “Dios, mucho calor…” 

Antu: “Sí, me gusta el calor, porque… it’s beautiful.”

He was sweating, his skin glistening with a sun-kissed warmth. His eyes sparkled, alive and genuine.

I whispered to myself: “I want to feel the beauty of this scorching summer too.”

Since then, hot summer day would always remind me of Antu.

I’d think of the day I moved, and he brought over a bunch of plant babies as a housewarming gift. We spent hours repotting them, giving them new homes.

The plants thrived on my small balcony, eventually moving with me to a new place with a larger terrace. They flourished so much that I had to give away their babies, grandbabies, and even great-grandbabies to my friends.

I’d think of that night at my Villa Crespo home. We lay on the cool floor, talking about everything and nothing, until the first light of dawn.

Then, we stood on my tiny balcony, watching the sun rise over the city.

Once, while woodworking, he cut his finger. When he told me about it(1 or 2 weeks after), I panicked and asked:

“Oh my God, are you okay? May I see… Did you take a photo?”

He puzzled, as if thinking: “Who would take a photo while they’re bleeding?”

(Humorously, when I later cut my own finger last month, blood running everywhere, I didn’t take a photo either—there was no time to even think of it!)

I’d think of the funny misunderstandings we had because of our limited English and Spanish.

I’d think of the most delicious Milanesa de Napolitana I’ve ever had—made with eggplant by Antu’s hands.

I’d think of the day we sat in the park, a bug landed on us, and we both held our breath, watching its tiny, fearless steps.

And of course, I’d remember his words:

“Me gusta el calor, porque es lindo.”

Just like this hot wind — overwhelming at times, but occasionally… kind of lovely.