I hate the heat. HATE IT. I'm melting before my own eyes, now limpid opal pools of pale green and blunted pastel turquoise.
Want to go for ice cream? The Devil craves the heat of the asphalt, and the roar of his car.
No, it's too hot. I refuse to put on additional clothing or stick to the warm leather seats. Not today, Satan. I have a freezer full of ice cream in the garage anyway. At least I think I do. PJ and I compete for who has the biggest sweet tooth of the Collective, and so I usually go looking and find the shelves empty.