“It’s cold out,” you said that morning, and I wondered when we’d been reduced to small talk, as if the cold ever bothered us.
“Yeah. It’s only getting colder.” You shivered, as if my words were controlling the weather, my breath gaseous ice.
“Hard winter this year.” Yes, I thought. Just like last winter. But, I didn’t bring it up because the distance between us was already a downhill ski *****, and one simple mistake could make us crash.
“I hope spring comes soon.” I wasn’t crazy about spring, but you were. The cold pierced skin and rattled bones, But it didn’t stab hearts with icicles. Nature was hardly as harsh as you– it was this, this unspoken year packed into meaningless words about the weather – of all things – just to keep the peace.
So I wished for spring, because I thought it might please you. But I didn’t want spring. I wanted to rush past straight to summer. I couldn’t stand the cold anymore – this cold – the type expressed in us, as if we were two icebergs drifting away, silent arctic waters between us.
I wanted heat, the type that makes icecream melt in a blink and drip onto the sparkling sidewalk, the blinding heat that burns cue marks through sunglasses.
You smiled. “Me too,” you said, but I knew you didn’t understand me – you had already drifted off, far away, closer to land than I. Closer to closure. You only spoke of spring.