My office was an oven, or the inside of a rotisserie chicken, or the dressing room of Hell’s burlesque. “Martin,” Valerie asked slowly, as though she was trying not to expend too much of her waning energy. “Why is it so hot in here?” It was just before ten a.m. and my dress shirt had already wilted. I hadn’t bothered with a jacket, and even my tie felt too heavy. If Valerie wasn’t here, I’d be down to my undershirt. I’d left the windows open and the fans running overnight, but it hadn’t done anything except blow some papers around.
The Lonely Repairman
