The Heater

In the winter, when the southerly winds blow from Antarctica through Tasmania and make their presence known to the people of Melbourne, we turn the heating on. We don’t ask much of you. We ask that you do your job and heat the house for us. Is this too much to ask?

Winter went on for months without end. You worked for us well until you thought Spring was coming early. Now you’re resetting all the time, turning yourself off, keeping your status at the rather puzzling setting, “On Waiting”, and telling us you are going to be uncooperative.

You remind me of my good friend’s partner. She was always telling him to get turned on, but he was always turned off. She would cry to him, “Why do I always have to turn you on!?…why don’t you ever turn me on anymore!?”

Turns out, he wasn’t really into her. They end up going their separate ways. Now he is a distant memory.

Heater, please don’t make me replace you because you won’t turn it on for me, even though I’m trying to turn you on.

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