Sandra Jones

The hush from the snowstorm makes me feel anxious.  I watch the fluffy silent powder pile up outside the window as I wait, looking out past the white haze pining to see headlights.  He should be here any minute to save me from this, I thought a half hour ago.  Any minute now.

The window is drafty and I can’t move from under this blanket.  The howling wind outside and the white wash it creates on the roads must be the reason why he is taking so long.  The tea in the lidded paper cup next to me would normally comfort me, but it’s cold now because his absence is haunting.  Like an icy wind, over my shoulder lingers my loneliness, highlighted by the blank, white world.  The XM radio drones on in the background and the disembodied voice of the newsman feigns to keep me company.  He can’t talk to me, hear me calling, keep me warm, or just offer sweet little kisses on the head for being myself.  I need him here now and there are no headlights yet.  Any minute.

Two miles away taillights glowed faintly at the side of a road where a car was waiting, having slid down an embankment toward a frozen creek.  No one came down the road to save him from freezing to death. 

I still wait for him every time it snows.