It's like sometimes you sweat when it's not hot out. Or you're teaching in a blouse, wool sweater, wool skirt, tights, bra, big shoes, and you don't sweat: it's 70 degrees outside, heat's on in your classroom, and you don't sweat. Like you need a drink right now, lunchtime, not later, a shot and a beer. You're cool, though, you have the shot up at the bar so fast your colleagues think you just went to the toilet.
It's like something's casing you and won't show itself. Maybe the voyeur from summers ago, 100 degrees or so, when the landlord not only wouldn't install AC, ha, but wouldn't put up grating or let you put it up to keep the guy out--it's the collective, symbolic landlord of my psyche? When he made bail you borrowed that pistol, and slept with it under your pillow. Lucky you carry it always.
At the bar the guy next to you favors some authority. You'll shoot him if he turns like your conscience, they can turn to anything, and says, glancing at your briefcase: There, you, selling dildos like that girl last night, a caseful arranged on beds of pink tissue? You're 30. You have an excellent job. You got a problem standing right next to you. Shoot him. Loud sounds, everything. Shoot him.