It was just Arthur’s luck that they’d get to their house in the middle of the sweltering-hot Summer weather and find their air-conditioner had broken down.
“Christ,” Eames had muttered, rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt halfway. Arthur glared and felt like he was being roasted in the tight confines of his three piece suit. At least the freezer, refrigerator and shower still worked.
“We need some food,” he’d said to Eames.
“Alright, darling, you drive and I’ll do the shopping run.”
So here Arthur was, in their car with the cooling turned down as low as possible (it wasn’t cool enough), doing a Sudoku on an old newspaper that he’d found in the glove box. He was beginning to worry about Eames when the back door flung open and a violent rustling of plastic bags sounded as Eames scrambled in.
“Quick, Arthur, I’ve got ice cream,” he said and Arthur chucked the newspaper and pen messily into the passenger seat in his haste to start the engine. “Sorry I took so long, I couldn’t pick the second ice cream flavour,” he apologised as Arthur pulled out of the parking spot.
“What did you get?”
“Cookies and cream, I know it’s your favourite, and honey macadamia.”
“Oh my God,” Arthur moaned, already imagining the coldness sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach.
“I know. We’ll go home and you can have a shower and then you can eat all the ice cream you like.”
It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Arthur that they’d come up against a traffic jam. A car up ahead had managed to do a barrel roll and was blocking both lanes. Arthur was on the verge of doing something reckless and illegal to save the ice cream. He twiddled the temperature gauge nervously and glanced in the rear-view mirror at Eames, who was prodding at the shopping bags.
“Is the ice cream melting?” Arthur asked urgently.
“No, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Eames reassured hastily. “Don’t do anything stupid, darling, I didn’t bring my gun and I do love our house here.” Arthur huffed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, inching forwards until he found a side street he could escape into. They made it back home ten minutes later and dashed into the kitchen, shoving the shopping into the freezer and slamming it shut, panting heavily and covered in sweat. Arthur slumped against Eames’ shoulder, pressing his forehead into the bulk of his arm and groaned.
“Let’s get you out of these clothes, then,” Eames grinned, and dragged him off to the bathroom.