COLD
by Bast
Rodgers awoke to the sound of screaming sirens. Out of habit she reached out to the body
next to her and felt an unfamiliar hardness. For a moment she thought she was dreaming...
then she remembered.
Slipping out of bed she donned her robe and moved to the window. The panes were edged on
the inside with a tracery of frost, and when she touched them with her palm she could feel
a bubble of cold like a dome around them. Suddenly, she was lost in memories of childhood--
then the harsh snoring from the bed jolted her into the present.
She smiled a little. Lennie was one of those world class snorers. She turned to look at him--
long legs and arms sprawling across the mattress, mouth gaping, hair resembling a bird's nest.
But sweet. So sweet.
He'd looked like a kid at Christmas when she'd finally accepted his umpteenth dinner
invitation. Then, like an atheist who is so conditioned to disbelief, thought she was having
him on. She'd had to reassure him by phone and email right up until he'd shown on her
stoop--clutching flowers and smiling uncertainly. His old fashion courtesy warmed her heart.
The dinner had been good, the conversation witty. When they'd ended up back in her apartment
they'd had "nightcaps"--her scotch, him ginger ale. She hadn't protested when he'd made his move.
It was strange being with a man again--feeling hard muscle instead of heavy softness--feeling
all her hollow places filled...except, of course, for the one in her heart. She shook her
head to banish the image of a face she had loved for seven months. She was training her heart to be
cold. As cold as the New York winter.
She crossed to the bathroom, switched on the light, and dropped her robe. She appraised her
nude body in the mirror. Not bad for a middle aged coroner, she decided. She washed her face. Reaching
for the towel she saw a long, blonde hair standing in stark relief against the green
cotton threads. She felt a pang in her chest as sharp as a knife.
She slipped to the floor and cried against the cold, hard tile.
END
by Bast
Rodgers awoke to the sound of screaming sirens. Out of habit she reached out to the body
next to her and felt an unfamiliar hardness. For a moment she thought she was dreaming...
then she remembered.
Slipping out of bed she donned her robe and moved to the window. The panes were edged on
the inside with a tracery of frost, and when she touched them with her palm she could feel
a bubble of cold like a dome around them. Suddenly, she was lost in memories of childhood--
then the harsh snoring from the bed jolted her into the present.
She smiled a little. Lennie was one of those world class snorers. She turned to look at him--
long legs and arms sprawling across the mattress, mouth gaping, hair resembling a bird's nest.
But sweet. So sweet.
He'd looked like a kid at Christmas when she'd finally accepted his umpteenth dinner
invitation. Then, like an atheist who is so conditioned to disbelief, thought she was having
him on. She'd had to reassure him by phone and email right up until he'd shown on her
stoop--clutching flowers and smiling uncertainly. His old fashion courtesy warmed her heart.
The dinner had been good, the conversation witty. When they'd ended up back in her apartment
they'd had "nightcaps"--her scotch, him ginger ale. She hadn't protested when he'd made his move.
It was strange being with a man again--feeling hard muscle instead of heavy softness--feeling
all her hollow places filled...except, of course, for the one in her heart. She shook her
head to banish the image of a face she had loved for seven months. She was training her heart to be
cold. As cold as the New York winter.
She crossed to the bathroom, switched on the light, and dropped her robe. She appraised her
nude body in the mirror. Not bad for a middle aged coroner, she decided. She washed her face. Reaching
for the towel she saw a long, blonde hair standing in stark relief against the green
cotton threads. She felt a pang in her chest as sharp as a knife.
She slipped to the floor and cried against the cold, hard tile.
END