Estate law was far from glorious, but it paid the bills while reminding him every day that his clients were all going to die.  There was something refreshing in that information, some thread of hope that occasionally distracted Devon from his inner inferno.  Keeping his associate office air conditioned to arctic levels helped him survive through the turmoil.  Forty-eight square feet of cold.  But every time his phone rang or his door opened or his bladder announced it was too full – he was back in hell again. 

            Pyropsychosis.  That’s what his therapist termed it.  Researched it on some internet article from the Mayo Clinic specialist.  For that, Devon paid him thrice what he himself billed.  (And they say lawyers are evil.)  It wasn’t all in his mind.  Rather, it was the tingling that started on the back of his neck.  Spread across his shoulder blades.  Ignited his heart and lungs.  The air he breathed in may have been the same temperature as everyone else, but couldn’t Dr. Sukoti feel the heat when he exhaled?  It was like he was a descendant of dragons, if he believed in that sort of thing.  Right now, with his fingertips burning across a keyboard of lit candles, he believed he was going home for the day.  It was barely noon.

            Devon loosened his tie, wincing at the friction against his throat.  He deliberated over how many files to pack in his briefcase, settled on an even dozen, and chugged down an iced Snapple tea. 

            Outside his office, Tara shuddered in her summer dress.  Temps.  You tell them to dress warmly, they hear “dress for summer.”  Devon considered apologizing as he passed her station.  Nah.  She bothered him and quite frankly, he didn’t want her assistance again tomorrow.  If she had to ask so many questions, couldn’t she find a paralegal?  Mercy.

            Devon reached the corner and tapped on Joe’s door.  The senior partner waved him in and signed to wait while he completed his call.  A courtesy laugh later, the conversation was terminated.  Joe nodded to his subordinate.  “You look like hell.”

            “I feel like hell.  See you tomorrow.”

            “Devon?  We need to talk.”

            “Can’t right now.  I have a lunch appointment.”

            “With who?”

            Sunlight bounced off the slanted roof of the office tower across the street and filled the expansive office.  It reflected off Joe’s monitor, his framed photographs, and every piece of glass or metal in the room.  Directly on to Devon.  He felt like he was glowing.  He glanced at his watch; though the inside of his flesh was churning lava, the outside of his wrist remained pasty white.  While he shaved his legs to prevent any unnecessary rubbing of leg hair against trousers, his 100% Egyptian cotton suit still wasn’t breathing as much as it should.  He felt like he was in the middle of the Sahara.  Why couldn’t he sweat?  At least that way, someone might believe he was dangerously feverish.  No.  His thermometer always read 98.6.  His blood was normal.  There was no medical reason for the fire.  To this point, there were no medical reasons for people dying of spontaneous combustion either. 

            Devon shrugged.  His armpits smoldered.  Joe offered him a seat, but he declined.

            “You’re working too hard, Devon.  It’s going to kill you.”

            If only he was so lucky.

            “I had to go through what you’re doing now.  It sucks.  No social life.  No girlfriend.  You belong to Stokely.  At least you’re willing to admit it.”

            Joe closed the door behind Devon and continued.  “That’s the kind of single mindedness that will move you into a place like this eventually.  But you need to vent.  You drink?”

            Alcohol was flammable.  Devon shook his head.

            “Girls?” Joe persisted.

            Devon sucked in a lungful of hot air.  “I’m sorry.  Really, I am.  But right now, I think I just need to get home and take a long, cold shower.”

            That caught Joe’s ear.  “Is it Tara?”

            “What?  No.”

            “She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”

            “That isn’t what I meant.”

            Joe opened his door and called the legal assistant into his office.  Devon wondered if he was capable of blushing.  “Tara, Devon here has a special project for you.  You’re willing to work overtime?”

            “What’s the job?”

            “Marigold Stein.  You’ve seen the file?”

            She didn’t have to.  Marigold was an exceptionally wealthy octogenarian whose only problem in life was outliving her four sons and two daughters.  She had an extensive will set up with trust funds and charitable (tax-free) donations to a handful of organizations.  There was a death pool drawn up on a whiteboard in an empty office down paralegal row, and Marigold was the highest payout.  Everyone at Stokely knew her.  No one liked her.  That was why Devon inherited her file.

            Joe placed one hand on Devon’s shoulder.  It blazed.  He pointed to the briefcase, then to the temp.  “Devon has an appointment with Ms. Stein at 1:30.  At the Palm.  Have you ever eaten there?  It’s exquisite.”

            Something lit in Tara’s eyes, though Devon doubted she felt the same sensation he did.  She asked, “So why do you need me?”

            “Because Devon here sprained his hand.”  Joe’s hand slipped down Devon’s arm and shook his wrist; the associate didn’t need to fake the pain.  It hurt.  Joe continued, “He’ll need someone to handle the writing, the papers.  He’ll probably even need you to cut his meat.”

            Tara checked the time.  Noticing, Joe added, “It’s just lunch.  But Ms. Stein can talk forever.  I think that’s why her husband and sons died.  Because they wanted to.”

            Joe reprised his courtesy chuckle. 

            Devon looked at Tara.  She was pretty.  Auburn hair trickled over her shoulders.  Her pointy nose and chin would have looked witchy on a woman who wasn’t so petite; barely five-three, she was agelessly cute.  And she had wide, green eyes.  Devon had a weakness for green eyes.  For the moment, it was nice to have some reason – even  a false one – for his inner warmth.  Besides, since she was only a temp…

            Devon dismissed the thought as quickly as it had surfaced.  Joe’s earlier deduction was dead-on.  He had no social life.  Definitely no girlfriend.  A woman’s touch?  Wonderful.  And cruel.  Unless Tara was a closeted dominatrix and Devon was prepared for uncharted layers of pain, this was not going to go the direction Joe was suggesting.

            Even so, Devon felt the briefcase lifted from his grasp.  Tara carried it to her station, gathered her iPod earbuds into her purse, and returned, smiling.  “Ready to go!” she chirped.

            Devon led her to the elevator bank, wistfully passing a fire extinguisher along the way.