Come
In From The Cold
By Sarah Milks
The night is cold.
Frigid, really. Yes, frigid and
unforgiving. Snow is piling high
outside the windows of the small wooden cabin.
You curse yourself for the hundredth time that evening for ever thinking
it was a good idea to come here in November.
From the way the wind is pushing the snow into drifts, it could be days
before you’re actually able to leave again.
Just as you sit down with a cup of hot coffee in
front of the blazing fire, there is a knock at the door. You look up, alarmed. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. And the snow has been falling for
hours. No one in their right mind would
be outside. Your mind races with the
possibilities of who is standing on the other side of that door. Instinct tells you not to open it. Your heart leads you in a different
direction. Thinking that whoever is
knocking has no chance of surviving the night if left outside, you stand up and
move cautiously towards the door. With
a deep breath you pull it open. You are
left in shocked silence.
Standing before you is a man you know well. A man that many probably know well. His long blonde hair cascades over his
shoulders in messy tangles. You think
he looks rather adorable in the navy stocking cap he has on. Prior to that moment you never could have
pictured it on his head. His cheeks are
rosy and you can see that his teeth are chattering as you glance up towards his
glassy blue eyes. You can’t think of
one good reason why this man should be standing at the door of your small
vacation home. You almost want to pinch
yourself to see if it’s real. Thinking
better of it, you step back and invite him to come in from the cold. He smiles thankfully and enters in but
doesn’t say a word. You wonder if he
knows that you recognize him. You don’t
ask.
As he takes off his snow-laden coat you quickly
close and lock the door. You turn back
around and find him watching you, coat in hand. You smile nervously, hang the coat on a rack by the door, and
search your mind for something to say.
Nothing comes to you. He is at a
loss for words as well. The jeans and
sweatshirt that he wears are soaked through and you realize that his teeth have
not yet stopped chattering. He looks
only a tad frightened. Your heart goes
out to him. In a way it always has.
Still silent, you lead him to one of the large
chairs in front of the fireplace. He
appears thankful, nodding his head and smiling. He sits down and leans in towards the fire, rubbing his hands
together to generate warmth. You sit in
the chair placed next to his for several moments just watching him. His presence has mesmerized you. You take a sip from the cup of coffee you’d
been just about to enjoy when he had interrupted you and realize suddenly that
he would probably like some. You stand
up and hurry into the kitchen to pour him a cup of his own. When you return he seems a bit drier. His boots and hat have been placed on the
edge of the fireplace and he is running his fingers through his long hair in an
attempt to tame it. You smile, hand him
his coffee, and disappear again. This
time you come back with a hairbrush. He
catches your eye and you can see it there.
You can't put your finger on it but you know that something is
there. You are even more sure of it
when he declines the hairbrush, instead moving to sit on the floor in front of
his chair. Taking the hint, you sit
down behind him and gently begin to pull the brush through his hair. Still no words are spoken.
Minutes pass unnoticed as you brush his hair for
him. The only sounds coming from the
crackling fire and the intake and outtake of air from the both of you. After a while you place the brush beside you
on the floor and tentatively put your hands on his waist. When he doesn’t move away you lean forward
and place your head on his shoulder blade. You smile and close your eyes.
The clock continues to tick away your time together. As your eyes are beginning to flutter shut
you move away from him, standing up slowly.
His gaze follows your body until it meets your eyes. Questions are there that will never be
answered. You hold out your hand and he
takes it, allowing you to lead the way to the bedroom. You can feel in the grasp of his hand what
you saw in his eyes and you suddenly realize that he hasn’t asked your
name. You wonder if that should matter.
Inside the bedroom, you stand back and watch as he
peels off his sweatshirt and lets it fall to the ground. Your breathing catches slightly in your
throat. Not wanting to be caught
staring, you work at turning down the covers on the bed. When you look up again he is crawling onto
the bed in only his boxers. Already
clad in pajamas of your own because of the late hour, you follow suit and slip
into the bed as well. He pulls the
covers over both of you and turns on his side, facing the wall. You swallow hard and pray that he doesn’t
hear how loud and fast your heart is pounding.
Deciding that body heat is the best kind, you snuggle close to him and
throw your arm over his waist. Your
front to his back. This would be easy
to get used to. Flesh against flesh,
silent and still.
His breathing eventually becomes deep and even, like
the snow building up outside the cabin.
You listen, knowing that he is asleep.
Also knowing that sleep is not possible for you. You lie there, your mind racing with the
things you could have said. Things you
could have done. He is here, in your
bed. It is a dream come true. And you have done nothing about it. Now it’s too late. You wonder if he has any idea how much his appearance at your
front door has turned your world upside down.
You figure he must. After what
feels like hours, your mind finally stops working and you slip into a light
sleep.
The morning comes too quickly. You aren’t surprised when you wake up to an
empty bed. You sit up slightly, looking
out the bedroom window. There are boot
tracks in the snow on your front lawn.
A piece of paper is folded neatly on your bedside table. Seconds pass as you can only stare at
it. Part of you doesn’t want to know
what it says. The other part will die
if you don’t. You eventually pick it up
and open it, snuggling deep into the blankets on your bed to maintain your
warmth. The smell of him on the pillow
beside you brings comfort. You smile at
the words he has written. Just a few
lines scrawled out in messy penmanship.
He thanks you for your kindness, saying that most people, himself
included, would not have opened the door.
He speaks briefly of wishing that he could stay. Your heart flutters as he apologizes for his
silence. He couldn’t find the right
words to say, he claims. Maybe in the
future he will have another chance. You
fold up the note and pull his pillow close to you, knowing you will never
forget.