Memory Tape

Hot! He was hot, sweaty hot, suffering hot, not hot in the way he'd heard his daughter describe some hunk at school, some football player type who inspired a covey of female followers. Apparently nothing had changed since he was the be-speckled nerd raising his hand too often in chemistry class. He shook his head and smiled at how instantly ancient humiliations surfaced in his brain.

Especially now, when he was so hot, but not in the desirable, sexy sense, but in the middle-aged guy-sweating-visibly-hot. He'd never been cool, or accused of being cool. Of being cold, yes. His first almost girlfriend when he....What did he do that night at her door? He'd brought her home, got out of the car, opened the passenger door like the gentleman his mother was training him to be, offered his hand to help her out of the car, which she didn't exactly refuse, but didn't take either. He walked her up to the front door, well walked with her, okay, just behind her. He remembered how incredibly awkward he felt. She paused at the door, turned slightly, smiled at him--that girl with perfect teeth--he remembered wondering if she had ever had braces, but now, as he thought about it, it dawned on him that she was expecting something. A kiss? Or an attempt at a kiss?

From him?

He blushed thinking of it, remembering the familiar tinge of embarrassment, a feeling so familiar that it surfaced immediately when he said, as he had done just now, out loud even though nobody was around, said it twice, I am hot, I am hot, and then, a third time. "I am hot" and felt better immediately.