Cold is relative. The world looked cold, gray like someone mixed the color and used a brushstroke they didn’t care about.
He left his sister’s basement in the morning to give his nephews the illusion he had a purpose.
He once did, a specific one. Now his purpose was to survive, to spend his days trying to figure it out, or not.
The day wasn’t particularly cold, by the seasonal standard. Kids might forget their gloves at home and not freak out about it, throw snowballs anyway.
Mike’s right foot shot forward against his will, and he nearly fell backward.
As he balanced, he realized the sheet of ice on the sidewalk had moved forward on a thin puddle.
The world, at least this little section of it, was melting.
Mike thanked some unnamed force for him not falling.
He didn’t believe in God.
If you were him you wouldn’t either.
He was 87 days sober today, if he made it the whole day, court ordered, but somewhat welcome.
It was too early to buy booze, to buy anything.
The streets in his sister’s subdivision wound and twisted, sometimes he got lost trying to find the store.
Mostly Mike waited for Sara to drive to it.
He liked the idea that she was there, that she knew he wasn’t cheating and buying Apple Whiskey, a taste the hardcore drinker in him was ashamed of, but a flavor that felt soothing to him.
He was thirsty, having exited the basement quickly when he heard Danny and Donnie stirring.
The store was two sharp right curls in this neighborhood with streets named after trees that only lived much farther south, then a straight left for half a mile, then a quick left curl, right curl, left…then…he could just walk back to Sara’s, he supposed. Long walks to the store to not get booze didn’t interest him that much. Waiting for it to open interested him less. He was trying to move past those days.
Icicles dripped from a clean white gutter on a house that looked like it was newer than Sara’s, similar but different design.
He could suck on an icicle.
Mike remembered cutting Timmy Kendall with a sharpened icicle. Poor kid born with three fingers and a thumb. They acted like Timmy was a circus freak because of that one small difference.
That was before I drank, but I should probably apologize anyway, some day, if I can find Timmy.
Mike used the horizontal slat on the small fence surrounding the house’s garbage cans to boost his foot to the top of the fence.
The icicle he wanted was dripping and looked metallic in the reflection of the window. He probably couldn’t reach the thickest one, but any would do.
An electrical conduit ran along the brick, to a floodlight that was aimed into a backyard with a built-in pool, covered in what looked like gymnastic mats, the mats harboring a small island of snow.
A quiver of jealousy ran through Mike, fleeting but strong.
He put his foot on the conduit, and forced his weight toward the house which he was now hugging. Once he had the icicle he could jump, let himself fall,really, into the snowbank in front of the fence.
He reached the stone window sill, weight shifting uncomfortably. Mike balanced himself and reached for the nearest icicle, the least appealing but the safest.
He saw motion. Dirty water green, like a drape, no a robe, a short one.
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