Snow is a conundrum I cannot solve from my bed. And laundry. Cooking. Work. Sex. Television. Depression has stolen wakefulness, too, like it has stolen the solution for snow—something to do with the water cycle, around and around, ad infinitum—like it has stolen myself. Nuance, if I ever had any, is gone with the sun.
I watch his car pull down the drive, the headlights making patterns on the walls, and I watch him walk with his briefcase. I watch him open the door. I hear him call for me. I hear myself answer.
I want to swim off the coast of Dublin. Salt over skin. Water over bone. I don’t say this.
He pulls me close, into his soft dressing and the smell of damp bergamot.
You are so brave.
I want to tell him that birds are brave for being bright. And I want to tell him that inside me, somewhere deep, someone swims in endless circles under endless skies. That I haven’t sat up today. Haven’t showered.
That once, in a swirl of color, of shape, my own name was the sexiest sound splayed against my neck. His lips electrified.
I turn my head to the window’s darkened glass.
When birds speak to one another in a swirl of color, of shape, electricity over water, I wonder if they know of love. I find his ear.
Where does the snow come from? Can you say my name?
Jared Povanda is a writer and freelance editor from upstate New York. His story ‘Clawing’ was recently longlisted for Pidgeonhole‘s The Body contest, and his work has been published in CHEAP POP, Maudlin House, and Splonk, among others. Find him online @JaredPovanda and jaredpovandawriting.wordpress.com