Erika Seay

Hot all week, alone in my apartment. A man in a blue jumpsuit is here fixing my air conditioning, and I pretend to read on the red sofa while he works. I don’t know why I’m watching. I don’t find him attractive especially. I don’t care for the secrets of air conditioning. So what is

this between us? When he looks at me and comments on the weather, goes back to work, glances over again, and I offer him a glass of water? Outside birds are lined along the telephone lines speaking in foreign tongues. Cars ride up and down the lane. I keep reading and rereading the name stitched over his heart.