Tuesday
He’s spinning typhoon-fast in the middle of the sidewalk, head tilted back, mouth open. He’s catching snowflakes on his tongue, or trying to. You don’t mention that more are sticking to his nose and eyelashes, because it’s a Tuesday, and you try your best to avoid quoting songs on Tuesdays.
He stops suddenly and stumbles, drunk from his head rush of circles. “Let’s get a cab back!” he says, eyes excited.
“I thought you wanted to walk,” you say, confused. Slightly more confused than annoyed, but only slightly. He said he wanted to enjoy the snowfall longer, so here you are, freezing to death somewhere in a Chicago suburb. (Fuck Chicago. Fuck Illinois. Fuck the pristine idea of the Winter Wonderland.) You’re fairly certain at this point that he doesn’t feel cold. He has too much energy to ever be frozen. You, however, are becoming a rather tall popsicle.
“If we get a cab, we’ll get back faster. Then we can play in it!”
You refuse to believe that he’s only a year younger than you. He’s five. Maybe six. Nineteen is out of the question, you decide, as he slips, almost falls, and gigglingly rights himself as he’s hailing a taxi. The driver is amused (so much more than you are) at his toothy smile.
He turns his attention from the cabbie back to you. “What’s Pete’s address again?”
Your eyes are rolling before you can help it, but nothing can stop his enthusiasm anyway. So you direct the driver and he cuddles in close to you, and he’s too warm for you to scoot away. His teeth are chattering, but you’re pretty sure it’s from excitement that just can’t be contained in his skinny frame. He overpays the driver and drags you back into the cold far too soon.
You know there’s no point in complaining about how you still can’t feel your face or fingers. You know there’s no point in wishing you were in sunny (hot, hot, hot) Vegas instead of snow-cloudy (cold, cold, so fucking cold) Chicago. You know there’s no point in telling him you should call Pete at work and ask if you can borrow snow clothes.
He’s too far gone to care about any of that now, throwing himself down into the snow so his footprints don’t mess up his design. He fans his arms and legs quickly, quicker than any six-year-old should be able to. You admit to yourself that he is indeed nineteen.
He scrunches his legs up at awkward angles under him and you let a small smile loose. He gets to his feet carefully, trying not to leave too many marks. He lunges out of the fresh hole in the snow, coming to stand near you. Tilting his head to the side, he admires his work, inviting you to do the same.
The angel is a little lopsided, maybe looking more like a weird blob than anything else, but he’s happy. His smile’s so big you’re almost afraid he’ll break, but he’s running, throwing himself into the growing layer of snow again.
He covers the yard with perfectly imperfect angels. You don’t realize that it’s not childish excitement that’s making him tremble anymore until he goes back to redo the first angels that are being filled back in with snow.
He protests as you pull him away, but you counter. “Look, this way, there’ll be fresh snow for you to make more in later.”
He pouts. You’re dealing with a six-year-old again. A very wet, shivering, teeth-chattering six-year-old that you have to drag to Pete’s front door, holding his sleeve with one hand while you fish the lent key out of your pocket. You push him inside before following and relocking the door, and suddenly, he’s nineteen again.
Nineteen and stripping off his wet clothes until they’re a sopping thing on the tile floor and he’s pale and naked in front of you. Nineteen and smirking at you, his best friend, boyfriend, whatever.
“I’m going to take a shower to warm up,” he declares, and pads away from you. He’s almost all the way down the hall and to the bathroom before he looks back (nineteen and damn cocky). “Are you coming?”
Somewhere between pulling off your coat and being pulled into the red-hot steam of the shower, you decide that maybe Illinois weather’s not so bad after all. And maybe (maybe) you don’t mind him acting thirteen years younger than his age sometimes.
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Thanks for reading!
He stops suddenly and stumbles, drunk from his head rush of circles. “Let’s get a cab back!” he says, eyes excited.
“I thought you wanted to walk,” you say, confused. Slightly more confused than annoyed, but only slightly. He said he wanted to enjoy the snowfall longer, so here you are, freezing to death somewhere in a Chicago suburb. (Fuck Chicago. Fuck Illinois. Fuck the pristine idea of the Winter Wonderland.) You’re fairly certain at this point that he doesn’t feel cold. He has too much energy to ever be frozen. You, however, are becoming a rather tall popsicle.
“If we get a cab, we’ll get back faster. Then we can play in it!”
You refuse to believe that he’s only a year younger than you. He’s five. Maybe six. Nineteen is out of the question, you decide, as he slips, almost falls, and gigglingly rights himself as he’s hailing a taxi. The driver is amused (so much more than you are) at his toothy smile.
He turns his attention from the cabbie back to you. “What’s Pete’s address again?”
Your eyes are rolling before you can help it, but nothing can stop his enthusiasm anyway. So you direct the driver and he cuddles in close to you, and he’s too warm for you to scoot away. His teeth are chattering, but you’re pretty sure it’s from excitement that just can’t be contained in his skinny frame. He overpays the driver and drags you back into the cold far too soon.
You know there’s no point in complaining about how you still can’t feel your face or fingers. You know there’s no point in wishing you were in sunny (hot, hot, hot) Vegas instead of snow-cloudy (cold, cold, so fucking cold) Chicago. You know there’s no point in telling him you should call Pete at work and ask if you can borrow snow clothes.
He’s too far gone to care about any of that now, throwing himself down into the snow so his footprints don’t mess up his design. He fans his arms and legs quickly, quicker than any six-year-old should be able to. You admit to yourself that he is indeed nineteen.
He scrunches his legs up at awkward angles under him and you let a small smile loose. He gets to his feet carefully, trying not to leave too many marks. He lunges out of the fresh hole in the snow, coming to stand near you. Tilting his head to the side, he admires his work, inviting you to do the same.
The angel is a little lopsided, maybe looking more like a weird blob than anything else, but he’s happy. His smile’s so big you’re almost afraid he’ll break, but he’s running, throwing himself into the growing layer of snow again.
He covers the yard with perfectly imperfect angels. You don’t realize that it’s not childish excitement that’s making him tremble anymore until he goes back to redo the first angels that are being filled back in with snow.
He protests as you pull him away, but you counter. “Look, this way, there’ll be fresh snow for you to make more in later.”
He pouts. You’re dealing with a six-year-old again. A very wet, shivering, teeth-chattering six-year-old that you have to drag to Pete’s front door, holding his sleeve with one hand while you fish the lent key out of your pocket. You push him inside before following and relocking the door, and suddenly, he’s nineteen again.
Nineteen and stripping off his wet clothes until they’re a sopping thing on the tile floor and he’s pale and naked in front of you. Nineteen and smirking at you, his best friend, boyfriend, whatever.
“I’m going to take a shower to warm up,” he declares, and pads away from you. He’s almost all the way down the hall and to the bathroom before he looks back (nineteen and damn cocky). “Are you coming?”
Somewhere between pulling off your coat and being pulled into the red-hot steam of the shower, you decide that maybe Illinois weather’s not so bad after all. And maybe (maybe) you don’t mind him acting thirteen years younger than his age sometimes.
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Thanks for reading!