It’s Sunday afternoon and the world is… spinning.

Or maybe it’s just the ceiling fan. Spinning slow, like it knows something I don’t. Each blade slicing the air with lazy indifference, casting shadowy little flickers on the wall like a low-budget film noir. It feels like I’m in The Big Easy, minus the saxophone and the sin.

There’s a particular kind of tired that creeps in on Sunday afternoons. Not exhaustion. Not burnout. Just a languid, dreamy fog. A stew of stillness and mental static. And all I can do is stare up, eyes dry, heavy, waiting for a thought to land but hoping it doesn’t stay too long.

And then… BAM. New Orleans. A flash of that sticky, steamy, gumbo-thick summer air. I can almost hear a trombone crying down a narrow alley while a bartender wipes down a counter that has seen some things. And now I’m hungry. Of course I’m hungry.

A muffuletta sandwich. Olive tapenade and cured meats layered like jazz chords. Salty. Savory. Sassy. Just like I aspire to be.

But I’m not moving. I’m in my couch coma, drifting somewhere between Delta blues and air-conditioned existentialism. My brain is pinging from ceiling fans to humidity to muffulettas to… a buzzing fly that’s clearly auditioning for the role of “unwelcome metaphor.” It zips by once. Twice. Taunting me. Like it knows I don’t have the energy to swat it, and frankly, I respect its hustle.

The heat outside is oppressive, but it’s the weight of thought that’s pressing down harder. I need to do things. Life things. Work things. Write things. Fold things. Feel things. But instead, I’m letting my brain unravel itself like an old VHS tape. Remember those? Spooling out slow-motion memories, imagined cravings, and cinematic humidity.

I keep drifting into these little dream states. One moment, I’m on my couch, the next I’m wearing oversized sunglasses and a wide-brim hat, sipping something cool on a New Orleans balcony. There’s probably a mystery to solve. A betrayal brewing. A secret past. Or maybe just a really good po’ boy down the block.

But the reality is, the most dramatic thing happening here is  that my AC is making a weird noise, and I may or may not be hallucinating dialogue with my ceiling fan. (“No, I won’t turn you off. It’s 85 degrees out, and you’re my only friend.”)

Anyway, the fly is still buzzing, the fan still twirling, and I’m still here. Dreamy. Steamy. Tired. Time-traveling via food cravings and cinematic memories.

Maybe I’ll move in a minute.

Maybe I’ll nap instead and dream of brass bands and beignets.

Maybe I’ll just keep staring up and waiting for the ceiling fan to give me a sign. Or at least a plot twist.