7:24 p.m. in Tucson
7:24 p.m. in Tucson is a liquid heat mirage melting from downtown building windows, pouring over the asphalt below. Though it is evening, the sun holds steady and stubborn in the sky.
On hands and knees, I shuffle across my bed and its cool linen blanket to unlatch the window. Tossing my weathered boots onto the open rooftop, I climb over the windowsill and step into the waiting leather embrace. To walk outside is to be hit with a thick wish for sleep. I dream of rain, a good monsoon if we are lucky. I dream of clouds so dark and thick the sky sinks as if a heavy down comforter. I dream of water. I am lucky to have any at all, hidden away in my studio apartment oasis. Later, I will take a long, lavish shower. I will feel guilty, and feel alive.
But before that, I want to revel in our desert’s greatest gift of all—our sunsets, brilliant, nearing the psychedelic on particularly vibrant nights. Dodging joint butts and other errant trash, I situate myself at the far corner, leaning to gaze over the railing. A layer of dust settles on my skin and sticks to the sweat. I feel it on my eyelashes and behind my ears and under my nails.
I hear a distant roar approach and my eyes scan the horizon to catch the train that comes shouting through the city, like it has for over a century. The station sits just across from my rooftop. I fall asleep nightly to the muffled blaring of train horns. It is a presence so consistent it feels like a friend.
I shift my gaze to the street below. It is quiet in comparison, with the exception of an unlucky few. A young couple in flip-flops waits for the streetcar, sweating. A sunburnt woman carries a blanket and mutters to herself. On busier, much cooler evenings, I count the passersby I recognize—an old coworker, a good friend, an ex, a current coworker’s boyfriend. Friends and I often joke that “there are four people in Tucson.” It’s a city, sure, but it often feels like you’ve met everyone you’re going to meet. Every other week, some spontaneous connection reveals itself—finding out a coworker held me as a baby, or running into an old neighbor at the grocery store. I complain about it, the smallness and the lack of anonymity, but I have to admit to myself that every time a spontaneous connection reveals itself, I feel held, and known, and home. Whether I leave for a bigger, more happening city, or stay here in Tucson’s familiar embrace, there will always be an invisible cord tying me to this heat, to moments like this. A mourning dove coos, and I think of my childhood, waking up to their soft songs on a July morning, sunlight beaming into my bedroom. I take a deep breath, air warm in my lungs. I am counting my blessings—this rooftop, this feeling of home, the gold rays of the setting sun against the teal of the waning late afternoon.
About the Author
Nikolai Ryan (they/them) is a writer and creative residing in Tucson, AZ. They hold a B.A. in English from Arizona State University and were a 2023–24 editorial assistant for Hayden’s Ferry Review during their time there. Their written work can be found on Substack at All Things Have Names and in Red Door Magazine, TELEPHONE, and Hominum Journal.
Illustration by Jane Demarest.
Edited by Tusshara Nalakumar Srilatha.
