It had snowed last night. It was still snowing now. She looked out the window, her hair falling gently around her face, almost as pale as the white outside. She tipped her forehead against the cool window, her warmth spreading out onto the glass’s surface. She breathed heavily, a soft vapor coming out of cherry red lips. Dim lights flickered in the background and outside, illuminated shadows on the snow banks. She shivered, cold inside the house as well. She ran a small, soft hand through her hair, combing it through her fingers, slowly, unsurely, remembering.
She left, and he hadn’t tried to stop her. She had hoped he would, give her some reason to stay. Words weren’t enough for her, and words were her life. Those words weren’t enough for her maybe. She rolled her face against the cool glass, closing her eyes, trying to understand why he didn’t stop her. She wrapped her arms around her body, feeling the lace camisole on the skin of her arms. A gift from him. And as soon as she got home, she ran to her bedroom to put it on, unable to erase his touch from her mind. It smelled like him. Like his hands when he carved furniture out of wood. Oh, those hands.
The wind picked up, rattling the doors of houses in the distance, an eerie sound sweeping through the branches of the old trees. The hinges on her own door creaked with age as it swung dangerously from them, threatening to break. She could feel the vibrations travel onto her cheekbones, her teeth chattering with cold and sound. She started to hum, trying to bring herself to ask the question of why she even left.
The long drive home made her fearful that she wouldn’t feel the way she did about him ever again. She walked over to her fireplace, pulling matchsticks from the mantel, lighting one against the rough sand board on the side of the box. The flame bloomed in the night’s air, and she watched it dance on the piece of wood. She titled her head, not sure if she was seeing legs of a ballerina tip toe on the wood, flickering between red and yellow, to blue. The dancing flame highlighted the orange in her eyes, a feral look sneaking over her. How dare he declare that to her? Who did he think he was?
She tossed the match into the helm, watching the timber slowly succumb to the ballerina’s dance. Tears fell down her face as she watched the fire burn. He didn’t know that she had taken the jewelry box he made her from the cabin, the gift that had another inside. She watched it turn orange and then black, crumbling edges falling away. She could hear the sizzle as her tears hit the stone hearth, the warmth already had spread to the outside.
A light flickered that was not part of the dance. She frowned to herself, annoyed at the show’s interruptions. She sighed heavily, hoping the light would go away as it shined through her fogged windows. She stood, running her hands up the stone work, feeling the warmth disappear the higher she pulled her finger tips along the uneven surface. She walked to the window, trying to make out the headlights that got brighter as she watched. Her eyes squinted, causing her to shield them with a soot-covered palm, leaving an imprint on her forehead. Then she recognized the truck.
She grew angry, her face hot and blushed, storming to the front door. She watched him get out of his truck, black dark circles under his eyes, she could see that from the doorway. The truck’s door slam made her shutter, the sound reverberated off the outside walls. She pushed her shoulders back, hoping for confidence to emanate from them. She watched him stride up, walk with purpose, towards her front door, not saying anything.
He stormed up her front steps, walked right through the threshold of her front door, and kissed her. She felt his hands, calloused from woodwork, curl around her neck, his chapped lips on hers. She responded, forcefully wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her, pushing her hips into him.
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