Portable Air Conditioner

Pot bellied, leaves swinging, cool fire breathing, white midget plastic robot. Clammy and bulbous, you are strategically lit blue and green so we can avoid stepping on you in the night. Leaning over, I press your membranous button and feel it give under my finger tips, the thin layer of clear plastic still unpeeled from your panel. If I spread my fingers and push them between your alabaster fins, they will be tickled by four more dancing fins. And if I push further still, I will scrape against a cheese grater grill that lets out a constant blast of icy cold air, numbing my hand into eventual frostbite. Your new plastic, chemical odour is faint after use, but still wafts up into my nostrils, pushed by the stream of air. I open my mouth and taste the plastic artificiality blown onto my tongue. At your back, at your piped and coiled exhaust is a blast furnace of wasted air, pushed out onto the heat of the balcony, dissipating almost instantly, thankfully not returning into the room. Your fan constantly whirs, never slowing down as the job to cool the room is an uphill struggle. Below the whir and the woosh, I hear smaller, tickling sounds of water dripping, moisture being extracted from the air and collected, redistributed into the room, humdifiying it to avoid your tray overflowing. You cool me, you make me shake.