The Coming of Winter
The heater in the studio groaned and muttered, and I huddled in the corner of a sagging couch. When had it turned cold? One minute ago, summer sweltered in the streets, and then suddenly, winter in New York teetered on a cliff, waiting to fall. The window gaped partly open and I sniffed the sharp breeze stealing into the room. In summer, New York smelled like fumes rising off piles of hot trash. Now the city was a black hole – it smelled like the absence of living molecules, like futility. Roger walked out of his office and looked me over.
“I’d ask if you wanted to talk about it, but you’re not the type, are you.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but then remembered the girl I was a year ago had gone. “I guess not.”
“I’ll take you home.”
Roger Hewitt Hudson taught my acting class, a class I began almost a year ago when I still dreamed of acting and dancing on Broadway. Now the dream seemed like a fairy tale once whispered in my ear, but I went to class anyway because Roger had kind eyes and a warm voice. When I trembled in bed, I dreamed of Roger holding me, Roger whispering in my ear.
I served as secretary for Roger’s Tuesday night class and often stayed after class to review next week’s schedule, so sometimes we took the train together or shared a cab. On the subway, our bodies brushed against each other lightly as the train bounced down the rails, and the rushing air politely drowned out questions I didn’t want to answer. Cab rides were more dangerous. Sitting just inches away, Roger would talk and I would try to pay attention, but the ghosts of backseat lovers sparked thoughts that made me blush.
Inside the studio, Roger pulled on his jacket. “Ready?”
My brain told me to move, but my joints rebelled. I stared at my motionless limbs and thought, how odd. There must be some sort of roadblock in my nervous system. Too bad. I let my head fall back on the cushions.
Roger knelt beside me. “Where’s your scarf?” He untangled my coat from my arms, poked in my pockets and pulled out a red wool scarf. I let him prop me up and wrap the scarf around my neck. He pulled me to my feet, and once he’d maneuvered my arms, I found it was not so difficult to pull on the coat. Roger buttoned it for me. “Let’s go.”
Outside the studio, the air was glass. I felt my cheeks redden as the wind hit and took me by the throat. My eyes began to water. A small whimper escaped my lips, which Roger heard, glancing at me with eyebrows knitted, pulling me more quickly to the street corner.
On cue, a cab approached and Roger stepped in front of it, forcing it to stop. I thought, I could never be so New Yorkish. I didn’t really want to get in – the cold had begun to embrace me. I thought maybe if I stayed still it would freeze me like a statue, like that game Statues we played in third grade. You spin and spin and spin, and then someone yells “Statue!” and you freeze. When you’re tagged, you come to life. I could freeze right here on the street until spring, and then someone would tag me and I’d start a new life.
Roger tagged me. “Come on.”
Damn. Same life.
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