We've had a blizzard in the Midwest, one that locked people in their homes. I have been no exception. You'd think that it would be a good time to write, but the lack of stimulation, I fear, does the opposite.
But write on, I must.
Winds of Change
Wind rattled the glass in the windows; he rattles a scoop of ice in a highball.
Winter has come in with a vengeance, killing the power and piling up drifts past window sills. The temperature inside the bungalow drops as the night wears on. Still, he does nothing. No fire in the hearth, no candles to see. He knows the path from the chair to the liquor cart.
She’s out there, he knows. Somewhere. Her mobile is in his pocket, so there’s no use in calling.
At this point, he’s not sure he cares to know her whereabouts anyway. The constant seething keeps the chill away, as does the whiskey.
He drains the glass, raises it in a toast.
“Happy anniversary,” he whispers.