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M. Blake |
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Warmth When the power went out, it surprised them both. Sure, there was a snowstorm out there, but it wasn't the first snow of the year, and they hadn't lost power before. In fact, they hadn't lost power, for any extended time, in a couple of years. Yet someone must have knocked a pole down on this night, for the lights didn't come right back on. Don found a flashlight that worked and got some candles out of a cupboard. Sandy cleared a place on the coffee table and they lit two thick candles. A third was lit for the small kitchen. Sandy sat back down on the couch-bed, and Don took the plastic chair across from her, with the table between them. There wasn't enough light for Don to read by, and Sandy's TV show was off. Then Don got up to look out a window to see if the other buildings in the apartment complex were dark. They were. "Well shit, I wish I cooked myself something to eat," Sandy said. "There's fruit. Cookies." "I mean something hot. Something to fill me so that I could sleep." "There's still plenty of beer and booze left," Don said. "That'll help put you out." "Well, if the power stays out for a while I'm damn well gonna get drunk," Sandy said. "What the hell else is there to do?" "Hell, and this was the night you were gonna stay sober," Don said, and he laughed. "Yeah," she said, and chuckled herself. "I guess that wasn't in the cards." "Speaking of cards, we could play a few hands to kill some time." "Well, let's see how long the lights are out. With our luck they'll be out all night. And I'll be damned well pissed if they are because my show's on tonight. The one night of the week TV's any good." "I better pour a couple of shots before you get too worked up," Don said, smirking. "Yeah, I guess you better," Sandy said. "It's been twenty minutes now." Don got two shot glasses and a fifth of whisky. Then he poured two large cups of beer. Finally, he grabbed a deck of cards from a desk drawer and they were all set for the time being. "I wish I had some batteries for that radio," he said, about twenty minutes, two jokes and two shots apiece later. "There might be some in that bureau in the bedroom," Sandy said. "Top drawer." He went into the small bedroom, where he slept, and sure enough there was a handful of batteries. In a couple of minutes they had the small portable tuned in to an oldies station: some fun songs they hadn't heard in a while and that seemed to fit the situation and mood perfectly. They sang along as they dealt hands. Don, who was a reader and enjoyed listening to music every day, appreciated this situation they were in now when the sound of the TV didn't dominate the small apartment. He thought Sandy watched too much TV - even poor shows, for lack of anything else to do. He had tried often enough to get her to vary her nightly routine a little, but she resisted. The only time he could get Sandy to listen to music was when she was quite drunk and high, or when she wanted to drown out some of the neighbors and their parties. Sandy countered by criticizing Don's bookishness, saying that the last thing she needed was a bookworm for a roommate. And these little arguments made them both wonder what they saw in each other, or what they had in common other than a fondness for drinking. It had started with drinking - the night they met at a nearby liquor store - and moved right along its well lubricated way for over a year, with the initial sexual play dwindling until now their relationship was one of economics and convenience. They had gotten used to each other even though the passion had died. It was Sandy's apartment, but Don helped out with expenses (he worked day labor), and with Sandy's food stamps, the two of them were able to make it - with booze and pot to boot. Lately, there had been too much drinking for both of them, with Don missing days of work, and Sandy being hospitalized overnight for mixing sleeping pills and booze. They had been at each other's throats more than usual, and Don had spent three days away from the place the previous week. He and Sandy made up somewhat on his return, but they were still walking carefully around each other. "Hell, I remember this song came out when I was in high school," Sandy said. "I don't know if you were born yet, Donald." Sandy was seventeen years older than Donald. He often called her Mama. "Seems to me my mother used to sing me to sleep with it," he said, and Sandy laughed. "I can remember hearing this in boys' cars," she said, grinning. "I was popular back in those days, I think I told you." Numerous times, but Don wasn't going to ruin their good mood by saying so. He poured two more shots. "I was a skinny little thing back in those days," Sandy continued. "I wish I had a picture. You wouldn't believe it." "Sure I would." Don remembered the night he first met this heavy, graying woman, and how, on looking closely into her smiling face, he could see, in the shining blue eyes and round red cheeks, traces of the pretty woman that once was. It was the eyes in particular, seeming to sparkle briefly for his benefit, that swayed him into accompanying her home. How many young devils in the past had she lured like that with a fluttering of her baby blues? Don wondered, amused. "But I was a virgin until I was twenty, Donald. I really was." He had heard this one before and, because Sandy told it the same way every time, believed it. If it wasn't true, she had managed to convince herself that it was. "My father thought I was sleeping around, but I wasn't," she said. "I just had a lot of boyfriends." She laughed. "Why I ever married Virgil, I'll never know. Young and foolish." "Well, I can remember being in "love" a few times at that age myself," Don said, making the quotation signs with his fingers around love. "It didn't seem that hard to do." Sandy laughed. "No, I think I was in love with someone different every six months," she said. "'Course at that time I could be choosy." "Now you're stuck with me." He smiled at her and held up his shot glass. "Yeah, now I'm stuck with your skinny little ass, Donald." She laughed. "But I figure I could do far worse." They toasted. Another song came on. "Jesus," she said. "I can't help but remember back with this stuff playing." They played some more hands, but only in a half interested way. They were more interested in talking as the drinks went down. An hour and a half went by and still the lights weren't on. "Damn, am I imagining things, Donald, or is it getting chilly in here?" "We'll have to use the extra blankets tonight." "Those fuckers better get that power on," Sandy said. "My stomach says feed me." "It's too bad we don't have a cell phone. We could call them up and tell them you're hungry." "Hungry and cold," she said. "And if they don't get the power on soon, I'm gonna have to take you to bed with me tonight, Donald." She laughed. "I'll have to resort to other methods of heat." "I'm getting hotter by the shot, baby." "You got some lead in that little pencil of yours tonight?" she said, and they both laughed. Another hour went by, and the chill in the air was definitely noticeable now. "I think I'm seeing my breath," Sandy said. "I don't know about you, sweetheart, but I'm gonna get under those covers." It seemed like the best idea, for the whisky was gone, and the cold beer didn't seem to be helping matters. "Yeah, I guess you're right," Donald said. He was thinking that he could take a couple candles into his room and read by them. When he picked up one of the big candles and his paperback and moved toward the other room, Sandy stopped him. She was already under her covers, looking up at him. "You're not going in there to read tonight, are you Donald? Stay out here with me. I'm drunk and I'm cold, Donald. Stay in here with me and we'll listen to the radio. We still got some beer, don't we?" "Enough to keep the cottonmouth off," he said, with a chuckle. Sandy's suggestion suddenly appealed to him at that moment. Hell, he was too drunk to read anyway. They snuggled up together as they had done when they first met, and we're quite cozy. They listened to a talk show and held each other, and both knew that the situation could be worse (in fact, wasn't bad at all now), and colder. |