It has been hot in Singapore.
Not that it never is. But this now-Americanized body always takes some adjusting to the 90-degree heat and sweat-like-a-hormonal-teenage-boy humidity that assaults you the moment you land.
But it’s bearable because you know there’s always the inevitable break from the swelter. That floor-rumbling, tree branch-crackling, giant-fat-drops-of-rain, monsoon-like storm that chases the birds into hiding and clears the air.
It finally came this morning, and I immediately thought of soup.