LITERARY FICTION
SEPTEMBER 2018
HER FAVORITE PART OF WINTER
KEVIN WHITE
HER FAVORITE PART OF WINTER
KEVIN WHITE
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
He does not get the reference. He smiles anyway. She sips hot chocolate. He sips at wine. A stray branch taps on the glass, wants to come inside, but is not allowed. He puts another log onto the fire. She loves quoting Joyce, but knows he won't get it, so she has to stop for now.
This is her favorite part of winter.
He pokes at his creation, embers flying, his face lit by the flame in the small fireplace. Her cup is empty. His is not. Pipes have frozen all over town. Roads are shut down. There is a shortage of bread. They have already made love twice today. She would like a third. He closes the large steel grating. It crackles like a perfect symphony. She holds out her cup. He smiles. She blinks her pretty eyes.
He goes into the kitchen and he does not mind one bit. While he is gone, she lets her hair down. The hair ties goes around her wrist. All is dark around them except for this little square of controlled fire. He drops something in the kitchen. She watches all her bad things die in the fire he made. The city has urged people to avoid the storm and go out only when necessary.
This is her favorite part of winter.
She is so happy that he does things for her, that he kills her depression. She smells the hot chocolate in the next room over. She wants another chance to quote Joyce. He comes up behind her and hands her the cup.
"Thank you."
He smiles and he looks into the fire for a while. She takes note of his lanky body.The bed is too far away. She would like it to start on the couch for once. The city has no other lovers like the ones stationed in this apartment. He finishes his wine. He does not want another glass. He sits down on the couch next to her and she leans into him.
This is her favorite part of winter.
Dreams are shared. Fears are set aside. Her hot chocolate soon disappears.They do not smoke. They do not lie. They do not do anything wrong. They speak of a future that is unbridled and immeasurable. Alive as they are, they love being revered to each other and nothing else. They try to finish a puzzle that's been sitting on their coffee table for a week. They can't determine exactly what the picture is.
"Why can't they just number the pieces?" He says, shaking his head.
This comment, among others, is why she is going to marry him. He asks her if she wants one more hot chocolate. She says no. Outside, they hear a car try to drive through the thick, heavy snow. He goes and looks out the window to see if they are alright. She loves how he cares for everyone equally, but her still above all else. He goes back to the fire to check its status.
"Let it die out."
The clock in the hallway says it's 10:35. They speak of having kids, but they only want each other for now. The flames flicker. The log is grateful that it is no longer burning. The puzzle will remain a pain in the ass for another week. They do not have work for another two days. They are happy they can stay inside. She gets up from the couch and smiles at him. She wants a specific thing. She walks up to him slowly, quoting the final lines of The Dead.
He still doesn't get it, but he kisses her right when she gets to the end. They go to the bedroom. The fire bids them goodnight. The city rests in this blizzard.
This is her most favorite part of winter.
"Is the fire hot, sir?"
He does not get the reference. He smiles anyway. She sips hot chocolate. He sips at wine. A stray branch taps on the glass, wants to come inside, but is not allowed. He puts another log onto the fire. She loves quoting Joyce, but knows he won't get it, so she has to stop for now.
This is her favorite part of winter.
He pokes at his creation, embers flying, his face lit by the flame in the small fireplace. Her cup is empty. His is not. Pipes have frozen all over town. Roads are shut down. There is a shortage of bread. They have already made love twice today. She would like a third. He closes the large steel grating. It crackles like a perfect symphony. She holds out her cup. He smiles. She blinks her pretty eyes.
He goes into the kitchen and he does not mind one bit. While he is gone, she lets her hair down. The hair ties goes around her wrist. All is dark around them except for this little square of controlled fire. He drops something in the kitchen. She watches all her bad things die in the fire he made. The city has urged people to avoid the storm and go out only when necessary.
This is her favorite part of winter.
She is so happy that he does things for her, that he kills her depression. She smells the hot chocolate in the next room over. She wants another chance to quote Joyce. He comes up behind her and hands her the cup.
"Thank you."
He smiles and he looks into the fire for a while. She takes note of his lanky body.The bed is too far away. She would like it to start on the couch for once. The city has no other lovers like the ones stationed in this apartment. He finishes his wine. He does not want another glass. He sits down on the couch next to her and she leans into him.
This is her favorite part of winter.
Dreams are shared. Fears are set aside. Her hot chocolate soon disappears.They do not smoke. They do not lie. They do not do anything wrong. They speak of a future that is unbridled and immeasurable. Alive as they are, they love being revered to each other and nothing else. They try to finish a puzzle that's been sitting on their coffee table for a week. They can't determine exactly what the picture is.
"Why can't they just number the pieces?" He says, shaking his head.
This comment, among others, is why she is going to marry him. He asks her if she wants one more hot chocolate. She says no. Outside, they hear a car try to drive through the thick, heavy snow. He goes and looks out the window to see if they are alright. She loves how he cares for everyone equally, but her still above all else. He goes back to the fire to check its status.
"Let it die out."
The clock in the hallway says it's 10:35. They speak of having kids, but they only want each other for now. The flames flicker. The log is grateful that it is no longer burning. The puzzle will remain a pain in the ass for another week. They do not have work for another two days. They are happy they can stay inside. She gets up from the couch and smiles at him. She wants a specific thing. She walks up to him slowly, quoting the final lines of The Dead.
He still doesn't get it, but he kisses her right when she gets to the end. They go to the bedroom. The fire bids them goodnight. The city rests in this blizzard.
This is her most favorite part of winter.
Kevin Richard White is the author of the novels The Face Of A Monster and Patch Of Sunlight through No Frills Buffalo. His work has been previously published by Akashic Books, Sundog Lit, Grub Street, Crack The Spine, and Lunch Ticket, among others. He lives in Pennsylvania.