A First Snow
By Janett L. Grady
Honorable Mention in the Spring Thaw Fiction Contest
© 2010 All rights reserved.
It’s snowing like crazy, wind howling, snow horizontal and pelting against my window. Drifts are forming, rising almost to my office here on the second floor. I’m reminded of the first time my husband lived in a place where it snowed.
Within a month after our marriage, my husband’s business took us from the big town of Key West to the small, secluded town of New Bedlam. We arrived in early January, and it didn’t take me long before I found out something men can do that I can’t. They can watch it snow. For hours. Maybe for days. Without saying a word.
There is nothing quite as relaxed as a man watching it snow, especially if it’s his first snow. He’ll just sit there, listening, as if he can hear it hitting the ground.
Science swears people never stop thinking, as long as they’re alive. Even when they’re asleep, people think. Now, I’m obviously not qualified to argue with Science, but if were a scientist, I wouldn’t be so highbrow-sure men are thinking when they’re watching it snow.
Me, I’m thinking. I’m thinking about shoveling the stuff. I’m wondering whether or not there’s enough food in the house in case it doesn’t stop and we can’t get out. I’m worrying about the car and whether or not it has enough anti-freeze.
“Pretty, huh?” My voice is a little high-pitched because of all the excitement.
No answer. He just sits there, staring out and listening.
Okay, we’ll sit. We won’t talk. If anybody is going to break the silence, it’s not going to be me. This is an unpleasant, rather defiant thought, and it makes me tense up. I clench my teeth with a just-try-to-make-me-talk attitude. It’s snowing harder. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m hoping he’s thinking about helping out with supper. After all, it’s been snowing all day and he’s been sitting there since right after doing the breakfast dishes. And hasn’t said a word.
Of course I could ask him what time we eat, but that would break my code of silence. I’ll just sit and be quiet. I can go hungry as long as he can. But what if he falls asleep? He could. He’s had a tough day watching it snow. Well, there’s no sense taking chances. I’ll swallow my pride and ask about supper.
“Hon, do you think we ought to start supper? It’s getting late.”
Listlessly he glances across the couch in my direction. “Yeah, it is pretty. I love it here.”
Of course I feel foolish now. He acknowledged my comment of an hour ago. He’s ignoring me, and I had broken my vow of silence. I’ll be hanged if I ask him again. I’d rather starve!
Minutes later, my tummy starts growling. I start thinking about opening and closing the refrigerator a few times. Maybe he’ll take the hint. I could ask him if there’s any coleslaw left, or casually mention that we’re out of margarine.
I get up from the couch, nice and easy, and move like a dutiful wife to the refrigerator. I open it and fumble around, rattling as many dishes and bowls as I can without being too obvious. “Hon, we’re out of coleslaw,” I say, shoving the bowl of leftover coleslaw behind a carton of milk. “Do you want me to make some?”
“If that’s what you want,” he says in a tired tone. “Are you hungry? Already?”
“Not really,” I reply, faking a yawn. “I was just wondering about the coleslaw, that’s all.”
Absolute silence follows. Absolute, dismal, snow-falling quiet prevails.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” he wants to know, sounding faintly superior.
“Well, when do we eat?” There. I said it. It’s out in the open. I want to be fed.
“I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” he says in a challenging voice. “Are you?”
“A little,” I dare say. “Aren’t you?”
“No, but if you are, there’s some leftover coleslaw in the fridge.”
I close the refrigerator and go back to my seat. I hike my skirt, remove my panties, unbutton my blouse and tear off the bra. I shift closer to him and put my arm around him. From where we sit, there’s a beautiful winter scene of all that noisy snow filling up our driveway.
It turned out to be an evening a woman is hard pressed to forget, sort of a second honeymoon in less than a month. I ended up being convinced I could survive without eating supper, at least if it’s snowing.
Today, it’s snowing like crazy. My view is incredible, snow pelting against my window, drifts rising higher and higher, almost to the second floor of my house, and I’m reminded of the first night with my husband in New Bedlam, in a place where it snows. I’m feeling a bit… Well, romantic.
Janett L. Grady writes from Palmer, Alaska. Her work has appeared in magazines all over the country. including two, Springfield, based in Missouri, and Travel Naturally, based in New Jersey, that have been using her stories in every issue for about five years. Recently venturing into the world of the “strange,” her weird creations have appeared in Tales of the Talisman, ZYZZYVA and Polluto, which is based in the U.K.
