Pollen Count Brooklyn 소설 & 이야기

“I'm fully hard. This place is cheating.” That’s when the first bloom opens directly above us with a wet, audible pop. A cloud of golden pollen explodes outward, glittering as though fired from a stripper's cannon. It coats everything: our skin, our clothes, even the insides of our lungs. I try to wave it away, but it clings, warm and tingling, seeping straight through fabric and pores. “Oh shit,” Becky whispers, her voice dropping into that husky register she gets when she is equal parts turned on and terrified. “My nipples just tried to cut through my shirt. What the actual fuck?”

He called her from the street outside the bistro at quarter past ten. The August evening was warm in the way August evenings in Brooklyn were warm—not the dry heat of the Hamptons, but the specific humidity that came from being surrounded by pavement and people and the accumulated warmth of a city that ran hot all summer. The air smelled like hot dogs from the cart on the corner and exhaust from the bus that had just passed and something green from the tree that had somehow survived on this block for forty years.

“Is this gonna be another Bermuda thing?” “No, unfortunately, I don’t own a private jet,” Audrey rolled her eyes. “It’s not Bermuda, but it’s just as great, I promise,” she said cryptically. After about twenty minutes of driving, the car then pulled to a stop. Apparently, Audrey was taking him out to Brooklyn. They got out in front of this huge park with a sign that read Brooklyn Botanical Garden. “Let’s go,” Audrey said as she took Killian’s hand. She stopped by a street vendor to get some bagels and coffee before they continued walking into the park. It was late February and the air was still chilly, but Killian didn’t mind it. He wasn’t wearing his gloves as holding Audrey’s hand was warm

It was mid-June, and the Brooklyn heat had finally arrived, thick and heavy, rolling off the East River and carrying the scent of asphalt and sun-baked wood. Inside the DUMBO warehouse, the massive overhead industrial fans spun in a lazy, rhythmic trine, slicing through the warm columns of light that poured from the skylights.