In the Sun

I met Spouse at his office and we went to keep an appointment at the bank. We chose a blistering hot afternoon, and had hardly crossed two streets when fatigue began to set in.
We both, our brows shiny with moisture, began to regret the excursion, but it was too late then to turn back.
We shuttled along side by side.
"You did," cautioned Spouse, "remember to bring your identification, didn't you?"
"I did, I did," I gasped, wishing for a cloud or a convenient corner to take shelter in.
But it was, I added silently, no use carrying that thing: neither of us in the least resembled our pictures anymore. Somewhere around B street Spouse's chin had morphed and melted, and by the time we stumbled onto L street my hair was plastered to my scalp.
We had the appearance of two nervous stragglers on their way to rob a bank, not to open an account in one- but they could keep their money: all I wanted then, in all the world, was a cold breeze and a chair made of ice cubes.
Our identity cards, emblazoned with images of dry and placid faces, remained chilled inside wallets. We were troubled by the sun, and thought we would never be comfortable again.
As we staggered along W street I could no longer tell which one of us was Spouse and which one of us was the bank manager. Anyhow, it mattered not- there was, after all, that lovely pond just yards ahead of us on Y street, complete with laughing ducks, and paper sailboats made of ice cream.