Beating the Heat

I came inside to the air conditioning at Lunch. It was simply too hot out in the Peace Garden. I meet Layla at the Salad Bar and narrate my woes to her sympathetic ears. I explain that I need to date some male from, say, Sub-Saharan Africa, because I find myself fleeing sun and seeking cold, literally dreaming of snow when the slightest sweat appears on my skin. She laughs, but has to admit that it's not a problem for her.

"Actually," She says, "I don't mind hot, dry, searing heat."

"Well, Layla." I say, "Wouldn't that make sense considering where your from?"

"Well, I guess so..."

"Now see, I don't know where I'm from, so I don't have any real foundation there."

"Do you really not know where you're from?"

"They tell me Scottish, English, Irish, French, Native American, something Mediterranean, probably in that order. Most likely why I find the idea of ethnicity so romantic. Anyhow, I might as well wait until Spring to find my African, eh? We're almost at the tipping point, one wasted summer later..."