Let It Snow

by Paul Hina

called out to them. But he stopped himself.

  He trusts Annie.

  It doesn't even matter if he trusts Max to do the right thing. He knows that Annie loves him.

  At least he hopes she…

  And there it was. Doubt.

  Nothing like a spouse being visited by an old lover to expose all those dormant insecurities.

  He tries to relax, to rid himself of those fearful thoughts. He tries hard not to let random dramatic scenarios play out in his mind. He takes a deep breath, leans against the tree beside him, and watches them as closely as he can through the screen of flickering snow.

  "What are you doing for the holidays?" Michael asks.

  "I'm not sure. My mom wants me to visit."

  "Where does she live?"

  "A couple hours upstate."

  "You going to go?"

  "Well, I was thinking about it, but this storm…"

  "I'll go with you."

  "You will not."

  "I would, though."

  "You would?"

  "I'd go anywhere with you."

  Holly smiles and turns away from him.

  "Why do you always look away from me when I say something nice to you?"

  "It embarrasses me."

  "Why be embarrassed? It's only you and me?"

  "I suppose I've gotten in the habit of not wanting you to see how much I like it when you say nice things to me."

  "I hope you won't mind if I don't stop saying nice things."

  "I won't mind."

  Michael presses a finger into the snow on the rail at the front of the deck, measuring the snow's depth. He traces the line in the snow from himself to Holly and back again.

  "And you? What are you doing for Christmas?" she asks.

  "I'm Jewish. Christmas isn't exactly—"

  "Oh, right. Sorry."

  "No need to be sorry. I just don't usually have special plans for Christmas, that's all. Most people's Christmas plans revolve around family, and since my family doesn't celebrate Christmas, I don't have plans."

  "Your family doesn't do anything, even for Hanukkah?"

  "My parents still celebrate Hanukkah, but they've spent the past several years celebrating it with family in Israel."

  "Really? Well, I hope you won't be offended if I don't offer to go to Israel with you for a visit."

  "No, not at all."

  "So, you don't do anything for Christmas?"

  "No, but it's not because I'm against it or anything. Generally, I'm not religious—holiday or otherwise. Though I do have a menorah, a small, fake tree covered with blinking lights, and I've always enjoyed Christmas carols. And, even if I think the little rituals we've created over time are silly, I can't resist the whimsy of it all."

  "So, when you say you're not particularly religious, does that mean you're not a practicing Jew?"

  "No, I don't practice. But I am a knowledgeable Jew."

  "Obviously."

  "What about you?"

  "Am I religious?"

  "Yeah."

  "I was brought up casually Catholic."

  "And now?"

  "Now, I don't really have a religious identity."

  "Hmmm."

  "Does that bother you?"

  "No. On the contrary, it would bother me more if you did."

  "Not that I'm not interested in learning about religions or their histories."

  "Right. Of course."

  "I mean, earlier when you were talking about the Holy of Holies in the temple, I found that very interesting. It's strange to think of anyone believing that God would have some isolated presence in a room, and the idea of a deity needing a blood sacrifice has always been a bizarre concept to me."

  "Yeah, well, our advances have led us to look at ancient concepts with a judging eye, but the pre-civilized world was a bizarre, violent place where any God that gave meaning, no matter how hollow, to a person's bleak existence was a welcome God."

  "Right, but you don't see a reason for belief today."

  "I guess it depends on the situation, but I can definitely see a circumstance where someone would rightfully turn to God for relief."

  "And you're not a believer at all?" she asks, looking at him. He can sense a searching in her, possibly even a sadness, and he thinks about her husband, John, and how delicate these questions must be for her.

  "I'm not anti-belief. I believe that if there is some higher form of consciousness, a collective consciousness, if you will, then it's probably deeper than human understanding, and all we can hope for is to catch faint glimpses of it from time to time."

  "How do we do that?"

  "By reaching for the truth, I think," he says, and holds an open hand out to her.

  She places her hand in his, and he turns his body to face her.

  "Is this how we reach for the truth?" she asks.

  "I've always thought that if it feels true, then it is. And this feels true to me."

  "Do you think this feeling, this urge I have for you to kiss me, is what you meant when you said we might catch a glimpse—?"

  She doesn't finish her question before his lips are pressed onto her lips, softly at first. Then his hands find her face and her hair, and things become more passionate until the only sound they hear is their breathing.

  Eric watches the silhouettes on the deck succumb to one shape, and a panic rises up in him. He stands, squints his eyes, tries to see through the stubborn screen of snow in front of him. But nothing is clear. For a second, time stops, and his heart freezes. It can't be true. He slowly moves forward. One step at first. Then another. After a few more cautious steps, he's nearly certain that they're kissing. He starts to trot slowly through the snow. Then as the flicker of the snow exposes them, erases any doubt, he runs.

  "Annie!" he yells. "Annie!"

  He gets halfway to the deck and falls face first into the snow. His feet and legs are so cold that getting up from the log and running was an impulse his head followed without fully considering how his numb limbs might react.

  Michael and Holly stop kissing and look out into the yard.

  "What the hell?" Michael says. "Eric?"

  Eric gets up from the snow and keeps moving toward the deck. The front of his body is covered with snow, and the snow on his face and hands would be bitterly cold if he weren't so preoccupied with his fear, his rage.

  "What do you guys think you're doing?" he yells as he approaches the deck.

  "What are you talking about?" Michael asks, staring at him.

  "Michael?" Eric asks, finally getting enough light to make out Michael and Holly's faces.

  "Yeah?"

  "Oh, thank God." Eric says.

  "What's wrong? Why were you yelling?" Michael asks.

  "It's... I'm sorry. It was nothing," Michael says. He's somewhat out of breath, but climbs the steps of the deck, tries to brush the snow off his coat and pants with his hands, but they're so swollen and numb from the cold that he's just clumsily shoving them up and down his clothes.

  Michael and Holly, still in a half-embrace, are still staring at him.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt. I guess I thought you guys had probably left already."

  "In this?" Michael says.

  "No, sure. You're staying the night."

  "You're sure that's alright?"

  "No, certainly. You have to stay," Eric says as he moves to the back door. He walks inside the house and yells for Annie.

  She moves into the light of the hallway from the dining room. "What happened to you?" she asks, moving toward him.

  "Oh, Annie," he says, and moves to embrace her.

  "My God, Eric, you're freezing. And wet," she says, backing away from him a bit. "What happened?"

  "I thought I'd lost you."

  "What do you mean? Why would you…?"

  "I saw Holly and Michael kissing on the deck, and it was dark and the snow was—"

  "Holly and Michael were kissing?"

  "Yes, but that's not the point. I saw them kiss
ing, and I thought it was you and—" He stops himself. He can't even say it.

  "Eric. I would never…"

  "I know, but when I saw them, my mind just flipped a switch, and all I felt was… I don't know. Regret. Utter emptiness," he says, and looks at her. "It was terrifying."

  "Sounds like it," Max says from the other end of the hall.

  "Max, I'm glad you're still here," Eric says, trying to compose himself. He takes his coat off, drapes it over his arm, and moves toward Max.

  "I was just getting ready to leave, actually," Max says.

  "Really?" Annie says, and perhaps she's surrendered a little too much panic in her voice. She certainly feels panicked, wants him to stay. Eric and Max are looking at her. "But it is looking pretty bad out there."

  "You could stay. We could listen to some music and catch up," Eric says. "I don't feel like I got to spend hardly any time with you tonight."

  "I'd love to stay, but Annie's right. It's not getting any better out there. Plus, I have an early flight tomorrow."

  "You think you'll even be able to get to the airport in this?"

  "I'm going to try."

  "What about Tim?" Annie asks Eric. "What was wrong?"

  "Oh, nothing really. He was able to get back on the road."

  "And Holly and Michael, they're…"

  "On the deck. I think they're staying the night."

  "Good. They should," Annie says.

  The back door opens and Holly enters, followed by Michael. Annie immediately notices that Michael appears to have his hand on Holly's lower back.

  "We were just talking about you," Eric says.

  "Oh?" Holly asks, trying as best she can to stifle a laugh. She doesn't know why she wants to laugh. Nothing particularly funny is happening.

  "You guys look cold. Do you want me to make some coffee?" Annie asks, moving toward the dining room.

  "No, I don't think so," Holly says.

  "I can't drink coffee at this time of night," Michael says. "It'll keep me up too late."

  Holly laughs, and everyone looks at her. "Sorry," she says. "You're just so…," she starts to say to Michael, but stops herself. "Maybe I