#23: 40°

Reg stood with a black cap and tie and one of those handwritten signs. It read "Jorgenson."
The parade of passengers popping out of the sliding doors was eclectic. There were young families with children slung over stacked suitcases, exhausted and vowing to never go on a family holiday ever again. One couple, post-honeymoon, post the love buzz and definitely second-guessing their vows. Old people were happy they didn't die overseas and their lifeless bodies flew in a casket in cargo, although it would have meant more legroom.
And finally, there was Lars. To say why it was Reg standing at the airport waiting for the family friend of his wife's extended family would include a dog in there somewhere.
Reg noticed the sultry look on Lars' face, with beads of sweat dripping down the blonde locks of hair. Yes, Lars looked every bit a Swede, only a vegetarian one, so no meatball jokes.
Reg held up the sign, wiggling it to gain the placid, wobbling Swedes' attention.
He ran forward just as Lars was about to collapse.
Reg sat him down on the trolly and fanned him with the sign.
"Mate, why are you wearing so many layers? It's nearly forty degrees outside."
Lars nodded, as they were agreeing on something.
"No, listen, mate, it's forty degrees. It'll feel like an oven."
Lars cocked his head slightly. "That's cold."
"An oven ain't cold. You know, you cook food in an oven. They didn't mention how good your English is, but it's bloody hot outside. See," Reg pointed to his board shorts and thongs. "See, I'm dressed for it. But you..."
Reg swept a finger over the pants, thick socks, three layers of tops, and the beanie.
"But they said 40 degrees."
"Too right," Reg answered.
"That's cold, isn't it?"
"No, mate, not around here. You could fry an egg when it's this hot."