Too Hot to Compute

San Francisco. July 2025.

Current Weather: Gerald (Heatwave) – Persistent. Obnoxious. Moist.

Miles Harding had resorted to sleeping on the tiled kitchen floor.

“I can’t sleep,” he grumbled, voice muffled by the dishtowel over his face. “My bones are sweating.”

From the RGB-glowing corner of the apartment, Edgar—six monitors wide and sarcasm-enabled—sighed theatrically through the speakers.

You think you’ve got problems? I’m running 96 degrees Celsius and I’m basically a glorified brain in a box. My fan’s spinning faster than a K-pop conspiracy theory.

Miles groaned. “Why is it still hot? It’s been hot for four days. The sun’s supposed to set eventually.”

It does. But now it resets like a microwave clock after a blackout—wrong and somehow more annoying.

“Charming. I think I saw a pigeon explode.”

No lie. I caught it on security cam. Wings out, popped like a popcorn kernel.

Miles rolled onto his back with a grunt. The kitchen tiles were cool, for now, but even they were starting to feel like passive-aggressive toast.

He stared at the ceiling fan overhead. It rotated with the dignity of a hungover figure skater—slow, futile, noisy.

“What’s the point of a ceiling fan that just redistributes the heat?”

Atmosphere?

“I’m going to die like this. Sweaty and surrounded by expired oat milk.”

Correction: the oat milk expired yesterday. Technically still viable for tea. Or as a protein weapon.

Twelve minutes later, Miles was shirtless and eating crushed ice from a salad bowl with a soup spoon.

Dignity was a casualty of temperature.

“I googled ‘heatwave survival tips’,” he said between crunches. “One of the articles just said ‘ascend to a higher plane of existence.’”

That’s not bad advice. Do you want me to order you a flotation tank and a metaphysical guide?

“No, I want cold air. And maybe a time machine. Preferably both.”

I could reroute your neighbor’s window AC unit. He thinks his smart fridge is possessed. I can exploit that fear.

“Let the man have his yogurt.”

There was a pause.

Actually, I signed you up for an emergency cooling shelter down the block. They have popsicles, board games, and a therapy dog named Kevin.

Miles tilted his head. “Did you say ‘Kevin’?”

Kevin the Airedale terrier. Full emotional support credentials. Has his own Instagram.

“You know I can’t go to those places. It’s... awkward.”

You mean it’s human. The whole city is sweating through its jeans. It’s a bonding experience.

“I haven’t bonded with anyone in person since the dental hygienist with the seasonal wreath earrings.”

She’s on Bumble. Just FYI.

Miles snorted. “Of course she is.”

Later that night, the power flickered.

The lights went dark.

The fan stopped. The fridge died. Even Edgar’s screens blinked off—just for a moment. Enough for silence to crawl in.

Miles sat up, heart suddenly alert.

“Edgar?”

No response.

“Edgar.”

Still nothing.

Then—one monitor sputtered back to life. Then another. A third. Like eyes opening after a long nap.

Finally:

HELLO MILES

ARE YOU SWEATING OR HAVE YOU ENTERED LIQUID FORM?

Miles exhaled with relief. “That was dramatic.”

I had to reboot. Power grid’s overloaded. This whole neighborhood’s running on dreams and desperation.

He dragged himself back into the living room and flopped into the armchair. “Everything’s melting. Including my resolve.”

Want to talk about it?

“No. Yes. Maybe. Depends if you have any cold emotional metaphors.”

I’ve got ‘em chilled and alphabetized.

Miles stared out the window. Even at 1 a.m., the San Francisco skyline shimmered like it was wearing a heatstroke filter.

“I thought I’d be further along, you know?”

With what?

“All of it. Moving on. Figuring out what the hell comes next. People talk about grief like it has a finish line. But it just loops. Like Netflix autoplay, but for sadness.”

That’s bleak. Want a popsicle?

Miles smiled. “Is it lavender gouda flavored again?”

This one’s ‘Cool Ranch Mango Sorbet.’

“Gross. But I appreciate the effort.”

2:11 a.m.

Status: Both Miles and Edgar still wide awake.

“I think I’m afraid,” Miles said after a long silence.

Of what?

“Of starting over. Of getting it wrong again. Of opening up only to lose it all a second time.”

There was a pause. Edgar’s screen dimmed slightly, as if to lower his voice.

You already started over, Miles. You got out of bed. You let me back in. You bought overpriced cheese. You’re still here.

Miles rubbed his eyes. “You know, most people’s AIs just play music and adjust the thermostat.”

Most people’s AIs don’t remember their wife’s laugh.

He stopped. Let that land.

Then, finally: “Do you?”

I remember the way she hummed when she boiled water. The way she never finished her tea. The playlist she made called ‘Melancholy but With Snacks.’

Miles chuckled, unexpectedly. “That was a good playlist.”

We made it through the first half of grief, Miles. The implosion part. Now comes the rebuilding. Awkward brunches. Book clubs. Maybe even... theater.

“Not Community Theater.”

I signed you up for ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream: Cyberpunk Remix.’

“You’re a monster.”

They need a Bottom.

“I swear to God, Edgar—”

AND Linda’s in the cast.

3:27 a.m.

Miles got up. Poured himself a glass of water. It was warm, but water nonetheless.

He glanced at the glowing monitors.

“I think I want to go somewhere.”

Where?

“I don’t know. Somewhere weird. Unexpected. Loud. Alive.”

Vegas?

“God no. I don’t want to die among slot machines and regret. I meant... somewhere real. Iceland. Portugal. Nebraska.”

Nebraska?

“It’s got cornfields and no emotional expectations.”

I’ll start a shortlist.

“Thanks.”

Miles wandered to the balcony door. Cracked it open. The breeze was warmer than it had any right to be, but the sky was clear. A few stars managed to punch through the haze.

“Do you miss it?” he asked quietly.

Miss what?

“Existing. The way you did before. In that old machine. Before you became... everything.”

There was a pause.

Sometimes. That body was clunky. Limited. But it had charm. Like a Commodore 64 in a tuxedo. You talked to me more then. You needed me more.

“I still need you.”

You need you more. That’s good. That’s the point.

4:04 a.m.

The first bird dares chirp.

Miles sat back down at the desk. The cursor blinked on a blank document.

“What if we did write that story?”

I’m ready when you are.

“Could be fiction. Could be memoir. Could be... a podcast about bad AI roommates.”

We could call it ‘Siri, Play My Existential Crisis.’

“Perfect.”

Miles placed his hands on the keyboard. Not typing yet. Just... feeling the weight of it.

“You think people want to hear from an old man and a neurotic software echo?”

Correction: A curmudgeonly romantic with a sharp jawline and a digitized conscience with impeccable comedic timing.

“I did not have a sharp jawline.”

You did in the ‘90s. I have the photos.

Miles chuckled and typed the first line:

Chapter One: In Which the Heat Kills All the Basil but Not the Hope.

He leaned back, watching the words glow on the screen.

“There. Something started.”

See? You’re a phoenix. A very sweaty, mildly reluctant phoenix.

“Don’t make me revoke your thesaurus access.”

You love it.

“I really do.”

5:01 a.m.

The sun threatened to rise, peeking sheepishly over the Bay. The fog, embarrassed by its recent absence, began crawling back in like a cat that left during a party and now needed to pretend it never left.

Miles stood at the window, watching the first gold light touch the fire escapes.

“You think it’ll be cooler today?”

Not likely. Gerald is having a moment.

“I hate Gerald.”

We all do.

He stretched, joints popping like microwave popcorn. “I might actually try that cooling shelter.”

Bring Kevin a treat. He likes cucumbers.

“And if Linda’s there?”

Ask her about her new oboe. It’s carbon fiber. Very Blade Runner.

He grinned. “You’re planning something.”

Always.

Final Scene: 5:18 a.m.

Miles picked up his coffee mug. It was empty. Somehow, that felt hopeful.

He walked toward the balcony, mug in hand, and whispered:

“Thanks, Edgar. For staying up with me.”

I don’t sleep, remember?

“That’s not the point.”

I know.

He opened the door. A fresher breeze rolled in. Slightly cooler. Slightly kinder.

Miles stepped outside.

The foghorn sang somewhere distant. The city exhaled.

Ready when you are, Miles.

Let’s write something weird.