Gold Medal Software 3/Gold Medal Software - Volume 3 (Gold Medal) (1994).iso/bbsutils/sun9403.arj/FIC2

Text File | 1994-03-01 | 6KB | 130 lines

Love in the Winter
Copyright (c) 1994, Franchot Lewis
All rights reserved




                 LOVE IN THE WINTER

                 by Franchot Lewis


         "Damn snow! Damn!" Mr. Andrew Davis slammed the door. He
     walked into his house, toward the livingroom and began to
     remove his overcoat, the two top buttons popped. "Damn this
     coat." He pulled off the coat and hung it on a rack in the
     hall closet.
         "Andrew, I thought that was you." His wife walked toward
     him from the kitchen. She greeted him with a wary smile.
         "I hope so, who else has keys to our house?"
         "The children."
         "Why? They never come here."
         "In case something happens. They may need to come home."
         "Sure."
         "The children might surprise you."
         "That neighbor boy, the Addison's kid, the one who charges
     twenty damn dollars, didn't you pay him to clean the snow
     from the front of the house?"
          "He did, but it snowed again."
          "It didn't."
          "It did. Maybe not downtown, but that is fresh snow
     out there."
          "Carol, you like the boy?"
          "He called me when he was finished and showed me the
     sidewalk."
          "Damn snow."
          "After the fresh snow started to fall he came to the
     house and offered to shovel it for ten dollars."
          "Another ten dollars?"
          "Dear, he's a good little worker. I told him, we should
     wait until the snow front has passed."
         "I slipped and fell on my ass, coming up the walk."
         "I'll put down salt."
         "I'll do it. I've got to put my coat back on. Where is
     the salt?"
          "No, dear. I'll do it. Did you hurt yourself?"
          "No, you go on. I'll take care of the walk."
          "Not in your suit, and you need to put on your big
     heavy jacket."
          "Don't argue."
          "Andrew."
          "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, like those damn partners of
     mine. Andrew can't do. Andrew can do, can shovel his own
     damn sidewalk."
          "Dear -"
          "Don't argue."
          "Bad day?"
          "And to top it off, it snowed. I had to interview an
     assistant that I don't need, don't want, that the company
     can't afford. A stupid boy, a college boy. I started the
     interview complaining about the damn snow. And he tells me
     that he likes the snow. Why? Because it kills the germs in
     the air. Stupid boy likes the snow. Doesn't he know that
     snow is bad for business? Employee absenteeism rises?
     Productivity falls? Accidents are up? People can't get in
     to work? The job calls for a financial accounting assistant
     and the boy knows nothing about real accounting, numbers,
     business."
          "You didn't hire him?"
          "They're going to make me hire somebody."
          "Okay, dear."
          "Yes, okay. I'm going to shovel my own damn sidewalk."
          "Change your jacket, get the heavy jacket."
          "I can't take time to change. Some damn ass might fall
     down and sue me for every damn thing I have."
          "You are just going to sprinkle down some salt?"
          "Carol, I am not an old man. Stop treating me as
     one."
          "I can call Troy, he is at home. He said he will come
     over when I call him."
          "Call the neighbor boy if you want and I shall yell at
     you at the top of my lungs."
          "I have pot roast for supper."
          "Twenty minutes. Have it on the table like a good
     girl."

        Mr. Davis got his big heavy jacket and put it over his
     suit. He took the large bag of salt and a shovel from the
     garage, and he went to work, cleared a path in front of his
     house and one leading up to his front door, clearing the snow
     off the street and the steps, and he sprinkled liberal
     amounts of salt on the ground. As he was about to put the
     shovel away, new snow clouds began to roll in and flakes to
     fall. He screamed as loud as he could and kicked a large pile
     of snow that he had just shoveled. He saw curtains and
     drapes move in the houses on either side of his. Nosey
     noses and curious eyes were poked and peeping out,  and he
     cooled it, drew in his breath. A ball of irritating wind blew
     in his face, and left him the color of burning red. His eyes
     turned the blue color of flaming gas. He saw his wife in the
     front window, and he pulled his anger inward, held his explosion
     inside, where it burst in the lining of his stomach like a
     gaseous cloud.
         He took the shovel and what was left of the salt and
     headed indoors, scaped his feet on the mat, as hard as he
     could. Stomping his feet and pulling them, grating, noisily,
     abrasively, back and forth, eroding the rubber off the mat as
     he hoped to erode his frustration.
         All of a sudden he smelled the pot roast. He heard his
     wife say something. He looked up from his feet and his eyes
     connected with hers.  "Oh ... Excuse me," he said quietly.
     Briskly, he rubbed the sole of his shoes a couple of times
     quick against the snow melting on their door mat, "I had to
     give up," he said, and he closed the door.
         "You'll get it later," she said.
         He stood, staring at her for a second. She asked, "What's
     wrong?" He shook his head. She asked, "Why did you look at
     me like that?"
         He said, "You're my wife."
         She smiled. "Young lady," he said. She said, "Dinner's
      ready, I'll put away the shovel, while you wash up."
         "Young lady," he said.
         "I'm no young lady," she said.
         "You are!" he said. "You will always be a young lady to
      me!"
         She smiled. He gave her the shovel.

      {END}