Ice Cold Thaw

It was January and the world outside was dead. Patches of sludgy snow still remained in spots along the streets, where the plows had come through. Trees were naked and bowing in the wind, above the muddy, brown grasses. That day, someone had removed the pure white, blanket by simply increasing the temperature.

"I don't think it really matters anymore," she said, holding the door aloft and staring through him with her ice blue eyes that refused to thaw. The bitterness of the wind outside ripped into the house and stole away the warmth. Her tone was flat and guarded.

He envisioned the dam breaking, and in his mind words rushed forward to quell the tide that was drowning the two of them. Not just any words, but the right ones, the ones that said "yes, of course it matters," and proceeded to explain exactly why. The words that could pick up all the pieces between them and make a beautiful fit.

Of course, a lump formed in his throat, and all he could think was despite the frosty, gusting winds and frigid temperatures, outside the snow still melted where it met the sun.

But there was no sun here, and she continued to stare with her frozen gaze that would not be bent. She stared long after, even, his heart had melted and formed thick, oily puddles in the snow-sludged lawn.

For a moment, he was a tree, naked, bemused, and sturdy against the wind, but hers was a gaze that refused to thaw, even after he was gone and she sealed the doors behind him.