they stuck to his satisfaction. We were dressed to the nines; our goggles
beamed from the tops of our heads like bug eyes, big and glossy. We
beamed too—smiles cracking the cold air, every breath cutting like a
knife serrated with an excitement as wibbly wobbly as those damn ski
lifts, dipped and lurching, riding to the top of something fun; dangerous.
And it was dangerous, all of it. Goddamn it, Roger. Goddamn
you.
The house, it sighs. Down the hall, her door. Beside it a window
haloed in a rainbow of light, softly buzzing. Am I imagining it, the
buzzing? My heart feels ripe, bruised; one of those windfall apples before
the snow starts and buries them in drifts. But the snow has already
started; it is.
What am I?
I am hot, soaked in it. The thermostat is stuck. I should get it
fixed. Have someone take a look. I can’t keep cracking windows. We don’t
have the money to waste warmth like this. But I sweat every night; the
heat collects in a pocket above my head and swelters. Maybe I’m part
of a science exper