“It's too cold outside for angels to fly.”
– Ed Sheeran –
Steemian @gmuxx has challenged us with another great contest:
Art Prompt Writing Contest #8
This image is the prompt for our stories.
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Image courtesy of @sad-dad
With Thanks to @gmuxx, Here's my contest entry.
"Baby, It's Cold Outside"
~by Duncan Cary Palmer~
He ought to be reading in front of his stone fireplace, warm air convecting out of the heatilator. Instead, the sidewalk stretches interminably ahead. What am I doing? I should know better.
At first, only flurries. Then, a burst like an avalanche. Now, flurries again. He hadn’t thought to dress for this. When she asks, I’ll just say these are my winter sandals. Smiling, he contemplates her reaction to that. For a millennial, she’s so mother-hen.
What if she’s not home? I should have called first. Stupid, stupid.
There’s a rhythm to his steps, a relentless scrunch… scrunch… scrunch… with a slightly squeaky overtone as covalent hydrogen bonds in ice crystals underfoot scream their displeasure at being rent.
What if she is at home? How will she react when I just drop in?
He turns, a flash of rationality propelling him homeward. Twenty yards later, it’s about face again. If I don’t tell her tonight, I may never.
An archeology seminar at the community college had lured him from aimless retirement. He’d always been curious about biblical antiquities. What he learned was that the strawberry blond in the seat to his right was working toward her PhD in Near Eastern Studies. She’d asked for notes from a missed class. He’d gladly shared them over a cup of coffee at the Student Union.
Surprised at how much they had in common, coffee after class had become a routine. Then today, she’d taken his arm as he walked her to the bus stop. Those five minutes kept replaying in his head. Could it be?
Crystalline water refracts lamplight in circular rainbows, magically stationary no matter how frenetically their constituent snowflakes swirl in random gusts. He turns up his collar.
Her place didn’t look this far away on Google Maps. The long, gradual curve leaves him unsure of his progress. Each lamppost, another frame in a film; each tire track, one more groove in a record. So easy to lose your place. Once in a while a route sign breaks the monotony.
But the goal. He imagines her smile when she opens the door. On a night like this, of course she’ll invite him in. They’ll talk, he’ll tell her… what? He'll bare his soul. And then?
What if this snow keeps up? Will she offer to drive me home? She’ll think me insane to be out walking tonight. Will she insist I stay?
His heart is pounding.
He had completely forgotten what being in love felt like. He is thrilled, overwhelmed, amazed. He is frightened to death. Am I reading her wrong? Maybe she feels nothing. Her family, my friends… a May-December romance? Preposterous.
On the verge of turning back again, headlights from a passing car reveal a street sign, and he presses forward. Turning left, he walks the remaining half block.
Lights on the Christmas tree in her front window diffuse colorful patterns on the snow‑draped hedge just outside. Leaving sandal tracks on the now nearly inch deep path to her door, he steps onto the small covered porch. He can hear music through the doorway; “Lo, How A Rose E’re Blooming.” Summoning his courage, he knocks three times. Pauses. Knocks again.
Inside, the music stops. Footsteps approach the door. Breath billowing in the bitter cold, hope battling fear, he braces himself for an unknowable future.
Our story continues: Part II
Appreciation to The Writers' Block for editing support.
