In this heat, the air holds everything. It contains sewage and sweat and metal shavings and gray fine dust. It forgets nothing, not the garbage that rots in the can, not the dogs and (or the men) that ever took a pee on the sidewalk. Nothing can hide from the heat of this air, and the people who walk in it try not to fight it, they expose themselves to it, roll their sleeves to turn t-shirts into tank tops — but no amount of flesh will reveal relief.
Read about summer in New York City, how heat waves do their deadly work, and what it all has to do with slavery, urban planning, and Thomas Jefferson on Perceptive Travel. Plus I got to use the word miasma.