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Heat Wave

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It's the heat wave of the century and you've decided not to spend it at your own airless apartment. Nope, you head for the house of the guy who has every amenity (and doesn't know where he got it): Spades Slick.

The two of you are long past the point where you have to let him know you're coming. With the hours you put in he's lucky to see you twice a week, and it's usually at awkward times like three in the morning or, in this case, in the afternoon. So you let yourself in. Slick's unpredictable, so you're never sure when he's going to be around, but at least he's got tiled floors, a basement, and more fans than you've seen in one place outside an appliance store. You're a little scared of the fans, open blades with no cages. One wrong move and zip, there goes a finger. You can see why Slick keeps them around.

You weren't sure he'd be here, and you almost pass out on the couch with a few Ginsu fans pointed your way when you hear something from down the hall, and creep down to investigate. From the bathroom comes the sound of splashing, jazz, and Slick's voice making a variety of noises. Swerving sounds, fake radio chatter, beeps, you name it. You know exactly what he's doing, and it's the stupidest thing you can imagine. You would never pretend your bathtub is a getaway car, mostly because you've got a shower but no tub, and because your fantasies lie in a more law-abiding direction. What a tool.

You knock on the door once and open it immediately, hoping to catch him with his hands on the imaginary wheel, but to your disappointment he somehow manages a normal position by the time you stick your head in the door. His expression is gold, though. His lips are pressed together and you can tell he's gritting his teeth by the way it distorts his jaw. He glares at you.

"Do you wander into people's houses on a whim, or what?" he growls. "Way to respect my privacy, asshole."

"What privacy?" you ask. "You're the one who gave me the key."

"I figured you'd turn it into something stupid and then you'd never get back in," he says. He's sitting in the tub in his boxers and undershirt, the rest of his suit rumpled from the heat and discarded around your feet. He probably lost patience before he got entirely undressed, or maybe he'd planned all along to dry off in the breeze from a dozen deadly fans.

By now you can tell he's more embarrassed than mad. His neck and face are flushed darkly but he hasn't tried to kill you yet, so, always willing to make your own demise a little more likely, you push him a little further. "Mind if I come for a drive?" you ask innocently. "Sorry. Dip. I don't know why I said that."

His glare is baleful, and would wither plants if they weren't already dead from the heat.

"Must be the heat," you remark, and kick off your shoes and socks. Drying off in the breeze in cool wet clothes sounds real good right about now. You get your shirt and pants off and step into the tub. The water isn't cold, but it's definitely cooler than room temperature, even in Slick's apartment.

"No, get out, get out, this is my fucking bath," Slick protests, and flails his arms, spraying you with water. That's just fine with you.

You nudge his leg with your foot. "Beep beep," you say, courting another beating. "Move over." Slick glares at you, but he can't do anything without admitting that a few minutes ago, he was using this tub as a makeshift Bentley.

You sit on down, the water rising to a level perilously close to the rim, and don't listen to Slick as your let your back slide down the tub. Your head ducks under and finally you're entirely cool.

You can still hear him haranguing you, but below the water it is blissfully muted.