Carrie has been spending too much time with Mr. Big. He has air conditioning. She does, too, but hers doesn't work. They develop a httle ritual. A heat ritual. Every evening at eleven, if they haven't been out together, Mr. Big calls.
"How's your apartment?" he asks.
"Hot," she says.
"What are you doing then?"
"Sweating."
"Do you want to come over and sleep here?" he asks, almost a httle shyly.
"Sure, why not," she says. She yawns.
Then she races around her apartment, flies out the door (past the night doorman, who always gives her dirty looks), and jumps into a cab.
"Oh, hiiii," Mr. Big says when he opens the door, naked. He says it half-sleepy, as if he's surprised to see her.
They get into bed. Letterman or Leno. Mr. Big has one pair of glasses. They take turns wearing them.
"Have you ever thought about getting a new air conditioner?" Mr. Big asks.
"Yes," Carrie says.
"You can get a new one for about $150." "I know. You told me." "Well, it's just that you can't always spend the night here." "Don't worry about it," Carrie says. "The heat doesn't bother me."
"I don't want you to be hot. In your apartment," says Mr. Big. "If you're only asking me over because you feel sorry for me, don't," Carrie says. "I only want to come over if you miss me. If you can't sleep without me."
"Oh, I'd miss you. Sure. Of course I'd miss you," Mr. Big says. And then after a few seconds: "Do you have enough money?" Carrie looks at him. "Plenty," she says.