Let It Snow

by Paul Hina

will have some coffee."

  "Eric, you want some?" Annie asks, moving by him.

  "Yeah, I could use a cup."

  Before Annie moves into the dining room she has to pass Max. She lingers a little too long on his eyes as she passes and bumps her shoulder into the door jamb.

  "Ouch."

  "You alright?" Eric and Max ask simultaneously.

  "Yeah, I'm fine," she says, visibly embarrassed.

  Max follows her into the dining room, stops at the chair near the piano and grabs his coat.

  Annie stops. "You sure I can't convince you to stay for one cup of coffee."

  "No. Not that I don't want to. I do. But I really should get back and pack. Besides, you know how Mom worries. I'm surprised she hasn't called already."

  "Right, well…" Annie starts, and then tries to think of something more to say, but her words only drift away.

  Holly comes into the dining room and starts clearing away the dessert dishes.

  "Holly, don't worry about that. Eric and I will clean up in a bit."

  "I don't mind."

  "Holly, can I talk to you for a second?" Michael asks, poking his head around the entrance of the dining room.

  "Yes, you can," Holly says, looking over at Annie, who is giving her a knowing smile.

  Holly leaves the dining room and follows Michael down the hall to Eric and Annie's bedroom.

  "What are you doing?" Holly asks.

  "Dropping off my coat."

  "And you needed me for that?" she says, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

  "No, I needed you for this," he says, and wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her close and kisses her.

  "I suppose you did," she whispers.

  "Eric says that there are some blankets in the closet of the guest room. Maybe you could help me grab them."

  "Why? You're sleeping on the couch?"

  "Well, I just thought…," he says, moving by her toward the guest room. "Unless…"

  "No, it's… I don't know. I'm not sure I'm—"

  "I understand. I assumed I'd be sleeping on the couch," he says, stopping and facing her at the doorway of the guest room.

  He leans in and kisses her again.

  "Then again," she says, and they fade into the guest room.

  Max is standing at the door as he puts his coat on.

  "It was good seeing you," Annie says.

  "Yeah, I hope we can do it again," Eric says.

  "I'll be back."

  "Soon?" Eric asks.

  "Yeah, I was thinking maybe in the Spring, if I can."

  "Great. It's been a such a long time since you've been here in the spring. It's as beautiful as ever."

  "I don't doubt it," he says, looking at Annie.

  And, now, Annie's not hiding from his eyes. She knows that as much love still exists between them, there is at least as much fear present. They both know that they've cleared a path again, a path that time had naturally started to cover over with forgetfulness. And, suddenly, she's beginning to wish he hadn't come back at all. Now, she'll spend the winter on edge, anticipating his possible return in the spring. How will she get back to her life when she knows he might be coming back to her so soon?

  "Could you drop Dad's car off for me some time tomorrow?" Max asks Eric. "I don't think I'm going to want to drive it down the hill in this. I think I'll just walk back."

  "Sure, no problem," Eric says, and opens the door for him.

  "Well, thanks for dinner."

  "Take care, Max," Annie says.

  "We'll see you soon," Eric says, and shuts the door.

  Eric and Annie move to the living room, to the bay window. Standing side-by-side, they stare out into the night. They watch Max move across their yard into a fog of snow.

  "Do you still love him?"

  "I love you."

  "That's not what I asked."

  "I'm with you, Eric. I married you," she says, and leans into him, places her hand on his chest, feels his rhythm, a rhythm that fits her own rhythms.

  Eric moves away from her, leans down by the Christmas tree and unplugs the lights. He walks by Annie, and heads toward the dining room. She can hear from the clattering of silver on plates that he's clearing the table. She should join him, but, for the moment, she's stuck on Max.

  The absence of the Christmas lights actually makes it slightly easier to see out the window. But, as he moves further down the road, his silhouette grows more obscured by the flickering snow. And, as he slowly fades into the snowy night, she finds herself composing another letter to him—another letter she's sure she'll never send.

  But before he disappears completely, she waits for him to turn back and look for her. She places a hand on the cold bay window, leans as far into the bay as she can, rests her head on the glass and holds her breath.

  He doesn't look back.