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Finch didn't make many wardrobe concessions to heat and didn't complain about it either, but he looked considerably happier on that first early September day when the temperature never got above 70 degrees. He wore a purple pocket square with thin yellow stripes, and it somehow looked more jaunty than usual. John smiled as they got down to work.
Two days later, a heat wave slammed the city back right into the worst of summer: sticky and all the more miserable for the contrast. John ran into some trouble on a case and needed a technical assist, which could only be provided via some wiring on the bank's rooftop. When John finally got out and met Harold in the getaway car, smothering-hot, Harold's face was red and his hair was limp and drooping, thin trickles of sweat running down. They cranked up the air conditioning as they drove, and Harold opened his suit jacket and bared his waistcoat and shirt to the cold air; there were huge damp circles of sweat beneath his arms.
The next day the radio informed John it was going to be more of the same. He went for his run before the sun came up and got to the library two hours early. He settled in with a book and said, "Hey, Harold," without looking up, when the creaking of the door came and Bear came running to him, woofing eagerly. John put down the book and gave him a good petting, then he looked up and double-taked: Harold was in a loose short-sleeved linen shirt and pants, as unbuttoned as John had ever seen him, carrying an iced tea.
John couldn't stop watching Harold the rest of the day, coding at his desk, wrists and forearms bare. Even when Harold dressed for a case, it was always somehow official if it wasn't formal: uniforms, coveralls; three piece suits like armor. Casual clothes seemed like a surrender of some kind. An admission that the heat could get to him, that he could be touched.
John swallowed and got up and got a tall glass of lukewarm water from the tap in the bathroom. He stood drinking it over the sink and got a second one. He didn't feel much cooler afterwards.
He went out again. Harold was clipping a leash onto a wildly tail-wagging Bear: time for his afternoon walk. John went and got the door and went with them. It was still miserably hot and sticky; even Bear's enthusiasm waned after about a block on city streets. They made it to the park and gave him a bowl of water at the fountain. While they stood over him as he lapped, Harold abruptly said, "Do you know, I think I want some ice cream."
John darted a look at him: Harold was looking at a tiny pushcart down a side path: striped pale green and white, not one of the standard park concessions.
Harold bought a cone of olive oil gelato and glanced at John. "Chocolate or canteloupe?"
"Chocolate," John said.
They sat down on a bench in the shade. It was good ice cream. He ate his cone fast. Harold ate his lingeringly and precisely, turning the cone at regular intervals to keep it even. He had a contented look on his face. John tried not to stare at him. "Back in a minute," he said.
He talked his way into the bathroom of a restaurant across the street from the park. He washed his hands and face and stared at himself in the mirror. He'd shed his suit jacket back in the Library. He shut his eyes, took a breath. Then he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned an extra button at the neck; he dampened down his hair and pressed it smooth, and then he went back outside to the park.
Harold had finished his cone. "I don't think we'll be getting a number today," he said, glancing at his watch. "I suppose we have the heat to thank for that. Shall we be getting back?"
John got up and stood in front of him. "We could go back to my place," he said, because if Harold could be touched, if Harold could want things, maybe he could want this, too.
Harold stared up at him, eyes wide, surprised. John tried to smile, tried to make it say, it's okay if not, but his mouth didn't want to work that way, wobbling with helpless longing.
But Harold blinked and then said, "I — I'd be delighted, John," softly.
He stood up. They fell into step together, heading for the downtown side of the park. Their hands brushed; they brushed all the time. But this time Harold glanced at him, and then he curled his hand loosely around John's, fingers interlacing.
The sun was still scorching-hot overhead. John walked through the park with Harold almost lightheaded with happiness: just another couple out with their dog, in the last days of summer.
# End