Here in Los Angeles we're experiencing our sixth month of summer, but I remember winter... Here's a new story for a chilly day. Because somewhere it's chilly.
The Temperature at Which Love Freezes
By Katherine Tomlinson
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| Credit: Websurfer6 |
The front door shut with a soft but
emphatic click as Jonathan slipped out of the house. Even though he knew Kaye
wouldn’t have heard it—she slept like a hibernating bear—he still found himself
looking over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t wakened, that she wasn’t
following him with her furious eyes.
But Kaye had merely grunted and turned
over, burrowing deeper into the 600-thread count sheets and goose-down
comforter.
There was only one person who would send
Jonathan a text in the middle of the night; only one person whose text he’d read in the middle of the night.
Jonathan had grabbed the phone, fumbled
for his glasses on the bedside table and read the message without turning on
the light.
Come
outside. I have a surprise for you. <3 span="span">
She’d attached his favorite picture of
her, the one he’d taken after surprising her in the shower.
With barely a glance at his sleeping
wife, Jonathan had slid out from beneath the covers, squeezed his bare feet
into the fleece-lined slippers Kaye had ordered online without checking his
size, and padded silently across the carpeted floor.
He’d tied his plaid bath robe tightly
before venturing out into the cold, well aware that all he had on underneath the
flannel was a pair of thin cotton boxer shorts.
Outside, Jonathan breathed deeply.
Purged of the vague day-time petroleum scent that always lingered in the wake
of rush-hour commuters using his street as a short-cut to the freeway, the
night smelled like pine needles
