Fragment: the AC guy

“You look hot,” he said.

It didn’t occur to me till later that as an opening line for an AC repair man it was genius. I had however dressed for maximum cool. Tank top and old baggy harem pants my sister had sewn for me years ago. They were comfortable, but so old that I assumed they were frumpy. I also assumed he was speaking of the weather rather than my figure. But I was disconcerted anyway: my house was in the shade and the windows were open with ceiling fans at medium spin. I’d only noticed that the AC was out because I’d turned it on for a friend’s comfort a few days before and discovered it was doing absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t tall. He was stocky, and grey haired, but his skin was smooth. It would be tough to state his age, and in this county, being a working man I generally assume that even if married a man wouldn’t necessarily wear his ring in fear of damaging either the ring or his fingers. I showed him where the outside unit was. He held my hand like a gentleman as I stepped down the boulders that served as steps down to the side yard. They aren’t exactly even, and I usually go down them like a goat rather than a girl. One expects gentlemen in the country, however.

He took the cover off the unit and seemed to push some button, looked at the outside breaker and said, “There’s no power.” We went back up the boulders, into the house to the breakers. The other day I’d tried flipping the AC breaker back on. I thought I had. He switched the inside AC breakers off and then back on.

Back outside we found that the AC really did have power. I apologized and blushed at what felt like what a friend might have called a “blond” moment.

“Can I see your hand?” he said.

Bemused, I said, “Sure.”

His hands were soft, his gestures breezy but calm. But being flirted with was such a novelty that I hadn’t even noticed that this was what he was doing till my hand was held in his, close to his chest as he attempted to demonstrate what flipping a tripped breaker ought to feel like. I almost laughed out loud. In no way did the hand holding moment resemble the feel of a breaker. What it did do, however, was soften the blow of what turned out to be an expensive visit for something that took two seconds to fix. A little. Expensive entertainment for a summer afternoon.

Later I told a friend of mine about the flirtation.

“Yeah! I know him,” she said. “He kept looking at my necklace. It wasn’t till later that I realized it had nothing to do with jewelry.”

I laughed. As she told me more I could envision this relaxed AC man with his gentle hands examining the pendant she always wore. Better to look down her lush cleavage. Mountains and the depth of Tartarus that even distracts girls.

He could get away with these sorts of moves, it seemed, because on hot summer days he was cool about flirting. Since he probably didn’t work much in winter, it was also true that if he came to the rescue of some damsel in AC distress, she would be hot.