Cold feet

The wind whipped up the snow in every direction. The initial storm was done and now the air growled with the smell of gasoline. The snowblower provided the unintended movie magic and did a good job of hiding the tears that had started to blur the letter I had been waiting for all day. A closeup would have perhaps caught the moment. The perfect angle cropping the glow from the screen and the slight crumpling of my face. But there in that manufactured snowstorm there was only you and I and my phone as messenger. The right words at the right time. Again. My socks would have already been soaked by then. Maybe I hadn't even noticed. Somehow, a steaming hot bath was the only thing on my mind when I reached home. After the last-minute MacDonald's promise from the night before, my cold feet were in desperate need of relief. No book or no beer this time around. Just me and my thoughts and the heat. And your words. And suddenly, lyrics from the last song I never wrote. The one I could never properly explain. The one that now explained everything.

You came
And everything went down the drain
All my pain

And then one simple little question, sent back halfway around the world.