AIR CONDITIONING

My telephone receiver slams down on its cradle. I'm

upset. I am soaked to the skin, sweat runs from my brow.
The air conditioner that I so naively entrusted to the
Yellow Pages Repair shop is delayed another two weeks.

I could have it back tomorrow, I was told, if I happen

to have a compressor relief control valve sensor assembly,
part number 3B25189927.4A, in my pocket. The repairman is
a funny fellow.

Very funny.

"Its a bit stuffy in here," my secretary says, in an

attempt to explain her entering my office. This is
obvious of course as nary a breeze wafts through the
three-foot square hole in my wall that appeared in
synchronization with the air conditioner's disappearance.
She goes to the thermostat, checks the temperature, and
adjusts its setting for the fourth time this morning.
Shaking my head in frustration, I again try to decipher
the overdue report that is now blurred into illegibility
by my
sweat.

An excellent typist, she's the best secretary I've

ever had. Completely fulfilling her secretarial duties,
she otherwise keeps to herself. Although I am by nature a
curious man, personal matters between us have never been
discussed. However, with the increase in temperature, her
attire has of late become remarkable as to its increasing
skimpiness.

As to the hole in my wall, I have attempted to fill it

with wadded papers and rags and such. This has proven
ineffective, no thanks to the active flocks of nesting
pigeons in the neighborhood.

Last spring I reeceived a bill from the local office

supply. It was rather badly smeared, but I did notice
something about furniture. A bill from the local office
supply shop recently gave me a clue about my secretary's
personal life.

Her more recent change to now quite revealing attire

confirms my suspicions.

She obviously spends every non-working hour in

thorough personal exploration of all things culinary.
In desperation, I reach for the phone.