Skin, and sponge

Softest mist invisibly speckling my skin as I walked out to the mailbox a few moments ago in my favorite little sleep shorts– pink and white striped with white lace trim at the bottom and a big ivory satin bow– and a thin light grey ribbed tee, brazenly brassiereless.  A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in front of me and then my damp locks, splaying out behind me for a few seconds and then settling back against my shoulder, the scent of rosewater from my hourlong bath tonight wafting into my nostrils, accompanied by the scent of wet leaves still green and tender on their trees.
 
The skin on my legs feels so free in little shorts, especially when unoppressed by heat and humidity, or tight restrictive materials.  The humidity tonight is cool and lifting, and I was reluctant to come back inside so quickly, but the droplets of water suddenly thickened in girth and intensity against my arms and scalp, so I took cover under my awning and watched the shiny assault on the parked cars and the darkening of the absorbent sidewalks.