“I’m *freezing* in here, Mr. F. Why, um, why don’t we close the windows?”
“I like… the billowing drapes,” he said coldly, without emotion. “Allows… me to thiiink.”
“Sure, sure,” I spoke back, shivering as usual. I guess they didn’t name him Mr. Frost for nutt’n.
“Torchboy,” he spoke to me, using that nickname I hated so much. “Turn down the space heater.” He pointed to the floor at the softly humming device. “You’re ruining the effect for me.”
I guess it would help if I put on a shirt, but I liked to show off my scorch’n tattoos. Over there is a tiger, and then there is another tiger, and then another tiger over there–
“I’m going to interrupt you here, baker b.,” said W., coming out from behind a curtain. We need to return to Picturetown, Canada. It’s the only way to properly end.”
They sat for hours like this, one still too hot and the other too cold, despite the hot body art. “Torchboy” had caught on. The wind speaks!
“Has the wind… ever called itself ‘W’ to you?” he asked at exactly 1/2 past 6. Maybe they should eat something, but neither could pry themselves away from the mesmerizing voice.