baby its cold outside
Song drabble meme: Send me a song title, and I'll write a drabble inspired by it!
I really can't stay - Baby it's cold outside
I've got to go away - Baby it's cold outside
This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
It’s probably winter that she dislikes the most.
They are not bound by words; each fleeting moment they spent has always been shared in silence more than anything else. Nor are they tied together by touch. Fingers barely graze against her skin, ghosting, present — fleeting. They are not forced together by anything but a quietude that seems too close to home (at least for her). And they’re okay with that.
She’s okay with this.
Somehow she’s convinced that the yuletide season had been hand-carved by Satan to torment her for yet another month. The way the cold spreads begins at her fingertips, until they’re numb, possibly trembling, curled up into a fist inside the warmth of her pockets. She doesn’t know if he dislikes the cold as much as she does. She does not know if he dislikes the cold at all. He’s kept in her peripheral vision, eyes locked in his tiny movements. Fixed on the joints of his fingers, the arch of his back. Her gaze remains cautious, but imploring. Like she’s mapping out a destination that changed its course withing a blink of an eye.
They’ve only spoken once or twice. She barely remembers it. She barely does anything to change it. His silence was a gift, especially to a girl that had to listen to her orders within all times. They meet up at this place by chance. There are no verbal promises, no written vows. Sometimes she comes and he’s not there. She’s sure her presence (or lack thereof) doesn’t bother him when she doesn’t arrive either.
She thinks it’s the cold that’s gotten to her better judgement.
He’s preparing to leave now, they don’t spare each other their goodbyes, they never do. Idle gaze turns its attention to the window, they’re surrounded by a veil of white and she scrunches her nose in shameless disdain. Negative degree temperature has never been appealing to her. She almost forgets about him until she’s yanked out of her brief reverie. He’s making his way to the door, his passing barely generating a gust of wind. She swears to god it’s the cold. Really it is. Her fist seemed tinier as she clasps it around the back of his shirt, delivering a gentle tug, enough to garner his attention but not stretch the fabric. “It’s cold outside,” she mutters, her head tilting up to peer at him, “You’ll freeze out there.”
