@waywerust | x
This time of year, it’s cold -- but he’s colder than usual. The walls are too thin, the windows not properly sealed. Ventilation problems are what keep him up at night. There aren’t enough blankets to ward it away because, somehow, it’s gotten beneath his skin. Burrowing itself deeper into the veins. Not even the warmth from her body beside him can help.
He knows he relies on her too much. Maybe he shouldn’t but it feels safe and secure. Selma is steady, consistent. Selma is his foundation. Idealizing women has always been a terrible flaw. Before her, there were others who found the disadvantages in his weak points. Not with Selma though. Through it all, she built him up to make him stronger.
Today, he wasn’t around her as much as he should’ve been. Things with him had been different lately. If Selma noticed, she hadn’t said a word. Always so quiet as if she spent all her time in her own head. That wasn’t true though, was it? Because he was the one locked away in the downstairs room, writing and writing or doing nothing at all.
Inside of the room, it was colder than last night. Damn it. Can’t even think straight in this damned cold. Monty sat back in the chair, staring at the typewriter before him as if that could will it to write. Blank, damned blank. His mind, the sheets of paper – everything in this God forsaken place was one over-sized blank canvas. Inspiration was lost to him, fleeting pieces of a past that would never reconnect again.
Everything around him was so quiet too. Even Selma. Sometimes he wondered if she was alive anymore. Words ceased to form legible sentences in his head. Like faint whispering between two different people but always hushing whenever she was around. Where was she now, he wondered. He had to check up on her. He had to make sure she wasn’t doing something she oughtn’t be doing.
Monty wandered out of the den, heading towards the living room where she sat with her back to him. Once again, always in her own world. And he didn’t blame her. Hiding behind his writing wasn’t doing either of them any good. Selma was persistent about only one thing and he just didn’t see why. Wasn’t she happy like this, just the two of them? He remembered a time when he wanted kids and with her too – but things were different now. Things were different and he didn’t know why.
“Can’t you feel that?” he asked, his voice loud enough to startle. He strode across the living room to the unlit fireplace, kneeling beside it to stuff some newspaper beneath the log inside. With a match from his pocket, he struck it then lit the paper. And, for longer than he should have, he remained staring into the flames. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold.
He looked over his shoulder at her from where he knelt. “It’s like hell froze over.” Then, standing up to face her, he narrows his eyes in suspicion. His hands are on his hips and he’s disappointed because she hasn’t said anything yet.
“What is it this time?”
