It’s so frigging cold I thought, walking along the side of the wet slushy road. My water resistant boots had given up the ghost a half hour ago, and I was sweating despite the cold, from all the layers. My neck felt like I had a necklace of ice cubes, the square edges scraping my chapped skin as I stumbled down the road. I hate walking in these conditions. One irregular stone,a slight loss of balance, a sharp edge and I’ll be on the ground with bloody shins sticking to my jeans. My green un-calloused palms will be swollen and scraped, through the holes in my mittens. It is so depressing out here this time of year; all you want to do is sleep. I’ve gotten into the habit of wearing bright colors, like a lapis lazuli sky, just to make people smile and lighten their mood.
Glancing up I see the lights that signal my Friday night journey is almost finished. The South Tahoe Lodge, at the end of a windy driveway is beckoning me forward seductively, with an irish coffee or a kahlua coffee with real whipped cream, in front of the fire. My lapis top showcasing the pure white expanse of my winter breasts, the only skin I show in public during the winter, and only inside.
It’s starting to snow again and my nose is now frozen l try to walk upright with one of my hands over my eyes, and the other trying to wam my nose. The heat from my exertion is melting the flakes just enough to mess up my eye makeup and blur my vision. So close.
I hear a truck shifting gears as it attempts to generate enough traction to make up all the way up the hill on the slick road. I hear the wheels spinning and the loud startling clanking of stones shooting up and battering the metal body. I stop for a moment and look back to see if I know the driver but the snow is coming down faster and thicker and I can barely see two feet in front of me. They’re still trying I think as I heard the truck gears grinding, a scream of rubber,and then the crunchy sound of chains sliding on gravel and salt.
I decided to continue up hill, although the effort it took was pushing me towards my limit, more like the highest resistance on a stair machine than a stroll up the hill- but I was no good at that either. What was I thinking heading out this late? I could picture the fireplace, the beautiful pale gold sand underneath the glowing fragrant embers, tiny lights floating diagonally, reflecting on all of the metal surfaces around the old lodge, giving off a warmth of its own.
Once again I heard the truck trying to make the turn and with a determined whine, knew that it had been successful on its third try. Now I had to worry about getting hit.
To be continued
© Sharon J Corrigan All rights reserved