BURN (Wattys2015?)

respect

A rickety fan struggles to slice through the humidity. The heat is unrelenting and thick, and it pins us to a certain type of laziness that's only prevelant on a hot Saturday afternoon.
He sits on the couch next to me, stretched out and panting. Even though he's on the other end, I can still feel heat radiating off him, and I can almost see it. His thick black hair sticks to his head, soaked like the rest of him. He props his soiled feet up on the coffeeless coffee table, and my nose twitches from the foul stench. Everything swells and stinks in the heat, though.
I'm watching a football game, but I'm not really watching it. My body is there, a cold beer in my hand and my eyes fixated on the screen. But my mind is somewhere else. Where? I can't really say.
A tired woman comes in, a basket of clean laundry on her hip. Her black hair is wound tightly into a bun, and an old faded tank top creeps perilously off her shoulder. Her skin is weary from the heat, but she's not as soaked as we are.
"Get your feet off the table and come help me fold the laundry, hermano." She says, walking briskly from the room. A wave of something lavender trails after her, and I can't tell if it's the laundry or perfume.
He doesn't move, his eyes lazily gazing at the droning television.
"Do it yourself, bitch." He mumbles, crossing his arms in a fit of teenage defiance.
I roll my eyes and take a gulp of my drink, letting the cold liquid glaze down my throat. I can feel the coolness spread from my core, but the heat rages against it.
She comes back in, hands on her hips.
"What did you say?" She croaks, her voice dry and tired. He ignores her and I ignore them both until she casts a pleading glance at me. "Do something." She mouths.
Sighing, I extend my leg and shove his feet off the coffeeless coffee table. He grunts in indignation, and I lean over to smack the back of his head.
"Respect your sister, ese." I grumble, leaning back to recline on the scratchy fabric.