THE BOOB TUBE
It was a hot night. Seriously. Hotter than any night you could think of. It must have been close to forty degrees Celcius, the kind of day that makes it hard to breathe.
She had spent the day inside, sown in her basement apartment, but eventually the heat and the cabin fever started to get to her.
It was seriously too much.
The sun had gone down hours ago and the evening had settled in with a sticky persistence. She could feel cool tendrils of a hinted breeze just crawling through the window.
She had been waiting too long already and had decided that if she was going to watch the movie she had rented, and with the prices they charged these days she had every intention of doing so, then maybe drastic measures would be required.
A string of incomplete phone calls meant she had nowhere else to go, but the newest entry to the Sex And The City saga could wait no longer.
She wiped a clammy rag across her forehead and slowly set to work. Within a half hour, she had herself set up nicely on the side of the road out front of her apartment building.
She settled into her office chair and watched with baited breath as the credits rolled and the familiar theme song played. This was going to be an odd, but perfect night.
Sarah Jessica Parker, aka Carrie Bradshaw, had just started her opening monologue when the world went dark. Everything except the street lights.
It dawned on her them that maybe this night was not meant to be. Maybe she should figure out some other, more productive way, to spend her time.
She left the television and chair where they were. Maybe the power would come back on soon and an innocent passer-by could watch the movie.
As far as she was concerned, the night was over and if she didn't hit the sac soon, she would be ip all night. That was the curse of hot summer nights.
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