Written by RF Wilson – 

He hefted the wine bag and held the back door open while she carried the groceries into the kitchen. He followed her in and put the bottles in the rack.

“You fixing the chicken?” she asked.

“Only if you don’t want to.”

“Then will you make the rice?”

“White or brown?”

“White. It’ll go better with the chicken.”

“Brown’s better for us.”

“Then cook the brown if that’s what you want.”

He pulled a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon off the rack and opened it. “You want some?”

“Sure.”

He poured them each a glass.

“The chicken’s going to have to sit awhile,” she said. “It’s still a little frozen.”

“Whatever,” he said, sounding to himself like his daughter.

She went to the living room to watch TV. He went into the study. At his desk, his attention wandered. A light snow was falling beneath the overcast sky. He looked at emails, Facebook, played solitaire, his gaze shifting between the computer monitor and the outside. He got lost in memory, thinking of childhood school days, snow days, snow forts, snowball fights.

“You going to do the rice?” she called from the other room.

“How soon ’til the chicken’s ready?” he called back.

“Forty-five minutes.”

He knew he could put it off, but she’d be bugging him until he got going, even though it would only take twenty-five minutes. In the kitchen, he put the rice and water in the cooker, planning to come back in thirty. He assumed the chicken would take longer than predicted. It was predictable.

Back in the study, the snow engrossed him entirely. There was now easily an inch on the ground and showed no signs of letting up. It could be a grown-up snow day tomorrow. Nobody going anywhere.

She called again. “I thought you were going to start the rice.”

He looked at the clock. An hour had passed.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked when he arrived in the kitchen.

He shrugged. “Getting old.”

They ate watching the evening news. She cleared the plates when they were done.

“Want anymore?” she asked.

A game show came on, watching it part of an evening ritual. During a car commercial, he said, “Oh shoot.”

“’Oh shoot’ what?”

“I just remembered something I’d wanted to do. My mind is a sieve these days.”

“You’ll be seventy-one in a few weeks you know. It happens.”

In the light of the street lamp, he could see the snow continuing to fall, probably close to another inch. He opened a blank page on “Paint” and began to work.

She called him when the next show came on. He re-joined her, knowing she’d want to know what he was up to if he missed that one, too. When it was over, she went to bed with a book. He returned to his project.

An hour or so later, she called, “You coming to bed?”

He debated. If he didn’t, she’d ask, What is it you’re working on? She’d know if he prevaricated. He’d have to wait.

After completing his bedtime preparations, he joined her, reading the fat book he’d been working on for the past month. Within five minutes, she removed her glasses, turned her light off and said, “Goodnight.”

“’Night,” he said. He waited ten more minutes before returning to the study.

 

The next morning, out on the front porch, he had to clear snow off the newspaper. He’d been right. Nobody was going anywhere today. Six inches at least, enough to shut down this Blue Ridge mountain town.

He took the paper and a cup of coffee into the bedroom, along with a homemade envelope. She was awake, lolling in the morning twilight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said.

She smiled and sat up, pillows behind her back, as he handed her the envelope. There was a card inside, handcrafted like its container. On it was a heart with an arrow through it, and the words The H loves The W (their shorthand for husband and wife) in the middle. She started to cry. He leaned to kiss her.

 

 

That afternoon, after the snow had stopped, eight inches or so altogether, they walked the quarter mile to the liquor store and bought brandy. Before dark, they went outside, walked around the block as the moon rose. He put his arm around her.

“I love you,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press and the short story, “Accident Prone,” in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press.