Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
W
hen we wake up in the morning, the yard is
blanketed with snow.
“White Christmas,” Kage murmurs, standing behind me at
the living room window.
I’m wrapped in an afghan. His strong arms are wrapped
around me. His chin rests on top of my head. I feel peaceful,
safe, warm, and lucky.
No matter how strange our situation, some people never
get even this much.
My neighbor on the other side is a woman in her seventies
named Barbara who told me last year at her birthday party that
she’d never been married because love was a bad risk.
She’s an accountant. Like David did, she has an affinity for
things that can be relied on: treasury bonds, statistical tables,
the second law of thermodynamics.
I asked him once how someone like him could’ve fallen in
love with someone like me—intuitive, emotional,
mathematically challenged—and he paused for a moment
before saying darkly, “Even Achilles had a weakness.”
That was classic David. Brief and mysterious.
To this day, I’m not exactly sure what he meant.
Kage says, “I have something for you.”
My laugh is throaty. “I think I’ve already had that, sir.
Twice last night and again this morning.”