That sound is the heat, like a drunk shutting up

After four weeks, I’m not going to represent you. The heat returns.

“Heat, tell me where you’ve gone?” I beg.

“Knitting,” the heat says.

I smirk. “Oh, you outdated version of Cormac McCarthy!”

“I brought long johns. Now let’s dress.”

I button him. So the heat and I become friends, again.