It’s just that time of year when we push ourselves ahead.
There’s something between those two. But it can never work. She loves the heat, and hates any artificial cool. Fans, even.
He, on the other hand, can’t tolerate being hot, and luxuriates in any and all arctic blasts emitting from humming compressors and canisters of freon.
Driving along through the summer swelter, the two needle each other playfully and incessantly. When she submits to a period of his air-conditioned comfort, she goes on about how she can’t feel her feet and how her toes are turning blue and falling off and how this is seriously affecting her ability to drive. They are going to crash, and it is going to be his fault.
And when he submits to the scorching of her desert, he torments her with tales of his sopping armpits and the resulting odors with which she will soon be regaled should they not find the A/C once again pleasantly humming along.
He teases her about her unconventional living situation and the “shortcomings” others haven seen in her that to him are really not shortcomings at all.
She pokes around in his wounds, knowing that she can get away with the poking.
He looks at her and says, “the only things wetter than my armpits are my tears.”
“Oh, that’s poetic,” she says dryly. The slightest tint of desire in the color of her words.
He, on the other hand, can’t tolerate being hot, and luxuriates in any and all arctic blasts emitting from humming compressors and canisters of freon.
Driving along through the summer swelter, the two needle each other playfully and incessantly. When she submits to a period of his air-conditioned comfort, she goes on about how she can’t feel her feet and how her toes are turning blue and falling off and how this is seriously affecting her ability to drive. They are going to crash, and it is going to be his fault.
And when he submits to the scorching of her desert, he torments her with tales of his sopping armpits and the resulting odors with which she will soon be regaled should they not find the A/C once again pleasantly humming along.
He teases her about her unconventional living situation and the “shortcomings” others haven seen in her that to him are really not shortcomings at all.
She pokes around in his wounds, knowing that she can get away with the poking.
He looks at her and says, “the only things wetter than my armpits are my tears.”
“Oh, that’s poetic,” she says dryly. The slightest tint of desire in the color of her words.
posted by P/O at 8/04/2005 10:09:00 AM
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