Wintering


Wintering
“I’m wintering,” she breezed. “Just here for the avalanches really.”

I thought that an odd thing to say, but her ice-blue eyes snapped me back to reality like a broken icicle shattering on a windowpane.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m summering,” I said.

“Summering?”

“Yeah, I live in the North Pole during the winter.”

“Really?”

“No, not really, I’m a holidaying Eskimo.”

I thought that a good line, funny even; she scowled and walked out of the room.

Two days later, I heard an avalanche had swept her away. Had my joke been that bad, or was it what she’d wanted all along? Questions without answers. I’d miss those eyes, though, cold like my heart.

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