Snow bound


I have no hope she will come.

The snow arrives ahead of schedule, an unwelcome guest to our romantic intrigue.

I had hoped the snow would wait, arriving after her as if to close the door and keep her from leaving.

I wanted an excuse for her to stay all night with me – at least one more time before she tells me we have to end our affair.

I heard the concern in her voice on the phone, heavy sighs at the mention of either. She simply said we needed to meet.

I suggested the mountain cabin in order to be as far away as possible from her husband or my wife.

I knew even then of pending snow.

I hoped it would trap us together and give us time to rekindle what was lost.

The first flakes didn’t worry me.

It always snows here, even when the forecast calls for sunshine down below.

But the flakes continued and grew thicker, pumping up my concern for her on the road. Even with her Range Rover, she could not easily navigate the slick turns the mountain roads take to reach me.

Radio announcers pontificated about hazardous on more conventional roads. So I expected a call from her on my cell phone to say she had become stuck in a ditch or worse.

Now after many hours of waiting, no call has yet come, only additional snow.

I dare not call her, fearing her husband might pick up the phone instead as happened not long ago and partly inspired her panic to break up with me.

I do not like being alone.

So the wait here is unbearable as if God or fate has sentenced me to jail

Loneliness made me seek her out when my wife found her career more interesting than our marriage.

Though I know I am most to blame, looking for something other than what I have.

The greener grass cliché strikes me as particularly apt as I stare out the cabin window at the snow and see no grass at all.

Snow and mountain tops, and the occasional tips of pine trees, I see. But even those I see through a haze of falling flakes so thick they might serve as a curtain.

I have food, firewood, even as measure of other comforts provided the electric lines do not fail.

I just lack a warm body and comforting soul with whom to share them.

Where is she now?

Should I stroll out to the end of the drive to look for the approach of her head lights?

Should I call her anyway, despite my most desperate fears?

I father my jacket, gloves and boots and in a process more complicated than the arming of Achilles, I dress and make my way out the door.

But the door pushes back. A mount of snow a mountain high stands behind it.

I am indeed trapped here, alone, and fear she cannot reach me even if she is on her way.

I need to tell her to turn back.

I grab up my cell phone, punch the button for my circle of important friends, hear it ring, click and a male voice, which is not her husbands’ asking: “Who is this?”

I hang up.


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