It's snowing now. Which it turns out is why Mike dropped by yesterday: to tell me it was going to snow. Today. And that if I needed to get anywhere—possibly for the next couple of days—I should park my car at the end of the long gravel driveway that we share.

Right. Oh well. My car is here. And I'm not going anywhere. The only place I may have wanted to go is to the Main Street, anyway. Because my bartender does not make house calls. It's better that way. I like going to him. It's like going to confessional.

It's appropriate that sabbatical has religious connotations.

So this morning he came back. Mike, I mean. I considered not answering again, but figured that might get awkward. I opened the door in white pajamas, the top casually unbuttoned, revealing and covering, like a wish. I hadn't looked at my hair, but I knew it was pleasingly disheveled. Men have told me I look sexy in the morning. Like I don't know this? Like I don't know exactly what the fuck I look like in the morning?

Mike stood on my porch in a brown shearling coat and a wool hat. Dark jeans. His heavy boots had made large blue indentions up my steps. There was frost on his mustache from his breath. His hands were in his pockets. The dog was with him again, of course. She sat. She shivered.

He made a half-turning motion in the direction of my car, which was up to the bumper in snow. He said, "I can drive you into town if you need anything."

"I don't really need to go anywhere," I said. "I have vodka."

He laughed, probably because he thought I was joking.

We stood there for a moment not saying anything. Mike looked behind me. Then at my bare feet. I was too fuzzy-headed for conversation. The only thing I could think of to say was, "I want you to hurt me." But I knew it was way to early in our relationship for that.

So I said, "I'd invite you in, but I haven't had coffee yet."

"That's reasonable," he said. He smiled. He didn't look cold.

I smiled back.

He said: "Well, if you need anything, just ask. It can get hard out here in winter."

"I appreciate that," I said. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

He started to leave.

"Hold on," I said. I went into my house and came back with a card. "My number."

"Okay."

"You can call. It's better, maybe."

He took the card and brought it back into his pocket. He had good hands for a murderer. "Okay."

He walked in the footsteps he'd made back down the porch steps. I closed the door and watched him as he made his way back to his house. In the kitchen there was bread so I made toast and put some jam on top. I thought about pouring a drink. I went to bed with my laptop and wrote some sentences. But they weren't good and I gave up and went back to sleep.

Category: Fallout