The Chatter
XxX
Work will come easy for him that morning. The writing will go well. He won't even dress for it.
He can work in his boxers, only donning thick socks to keep the chill from the hardwood floors off his feet. He can rest his feet up on the coffee table, settling in while his laptop whirs.
He wants to write about her and the unmade bed that hogs the bulk of his space. He wants to write of her cinnamon scent left on his shoulder, the last kiss she placed on his closed eyes, the sound of the door shutting, the silence.
He laughs at himself, picturing his editor's eyes bulging in disbelief and later narrowing in exasperation.
When the phone rings, he is halfway finished with the article that sends him away on research. His cell phone, an older model, is loud and tinny. He's either forgotten or neglected to upgrade his plan.
"Where are you now?" asks his brother, Emmett. Their bond reaches beyond the corners of conversation.
"I'm home." Edward, calm in the company of his brother's voice, is used to it.
"Home where? Home, here, or home, Seattle?"
"Home here, Em. Got in last night. How's mom?" As brothers, they are masters of mutual distraction.
"Fine. You know, taking down her Christmas lights months later. I had to go over with the ladder today. Icy as fuck out. There's a storm."
"Yeah?" Edward turns on the television and paces in front of the news channel.
"Better get provisions," says Emmett with a mouthful of food. "I have to go, get things fixed up for mom. Dad's stuck at the ER tonight. See you this weekend?" Emmet is a man tethered to the whims of domesticity.
"Sure. What..."
"Have you told her, yet?"
Edward knew it was a matter of time for Emmett to hijack the call. He pinches his nose and looks out the window. His brother is right; it's looking wicked out there. He wonders if Bella has made it home.
"No. I haven't," his neighbor is shoveling his walk. "What the fuck for?" He mumbles, frowning at the frost on his window.
"What do you mean 'what the fuck for'? Dude. You don't need this, you're not you, man." Emmett thought, after their last conversation, it was a given. Has his brother changed his mind?
"No, Em. I wasn't talking about…" Exasperated at the neighbor and his inability to articulate, he continues with "...never mind. I see what you mean. I know. We talked about it. And talked, and talked," he mumbles to a finish. "I'll do it. I'll break it off. You're right." He has managed to sound convincing even to himself.
"You're right," he repeats, staring at his neighbor bending and lifting at the knees, while the snow accumulates quickly on the walk.
"Right."
XxX
The six a.m. weatherman in business-casual dress and accessible stance called for blizzard. The weather girl in the late-morning broadcast repeated this, at every "ten to the hour" in a parka and earmuffs.
Both spoke in inches and feet and precipitation and record-setting hyperboles. "We're looking at a state of emergency by the end of the day, folks." The news was covered in dulcet tones and plastered smiles.
Later that morning, as the flakes fatten the trees, children will be sent away by grateful teachers. Office workers will collectively celebrate the crippled transit system and head back the way they came.
Everyone will talk about it as if the storm could cease in the presence of silence.
There will be calls.
There will be tweets and status updates.
There will be flashing tickers on news screens.
There will be chatter over wires, underground, and across the tubes.
No one finds fault with the snow.
Except Edward.
He has no food in the house and a knock at the door to answer.
A/N:
Cesca Marie and WriteOnTime are the clean up crew, but I'm messy, so don't blame them if you find fault.