Nietzsche on his Balcony by Carlos Fuentes

I met him by chance. That night was worse than just hot, sticky, uncomfortable, restless. It was one of those nights that, instead of relieving the daytime's heat, only increases it. With every passing hour, the day seemed to have accumulated heat before releasing it once the afternoon died, giving up the heat, like a leaden maligned bride, to the long night.

I stepped out of my unventilated room, hoping that the balcony would provide a cool breath of fresher air. But it didn't. The night outside was darker than the night inside. In spite of everything, I told myself, to be outdoors after midnight was, at the very least, easier on the mind than being confined to a damp bed atop the imprint of my own sweat: better than staying in a room with a pillow tossed on the floor, winter furniture, balding rugs, walls decorated with ludicrous wallpaper dramatizing a Christmas scene with Santa Claus ho-ho-hoing his head off. There was no bathroom, just a chamber pot shaped like a smile, a washbasin beside an empty water pitcher, old towels, and a bar of soap, wrinkled and cracked with age.