Letters From Kay, Number 6 – The Windows Fogged Over

My love,

It started raining before lunch and it hasn’t stopped. Not a cute drizzle — the kind that turns the pines black and makes the whole mountain sound like it’s breathing. I made tea. Then I made more tea. Then I gave up and stood at the window in your sweater with nothing underneath, watching the glass fog from my side of the world.

I drew a little heart in the condensation with my finger. Then I smeared it out because it felt too teenage. Then I drew it again because I am, apparently, still that girl for you.

The cabin is warm. Outside is a different country. I keep thinking about the last time we got stuck here in weather like this — how the power flickered, how you laughed when I pretended I wasn’t scared of the thunder, how you pulled the sweater up over my head before I’d finished pretending. Your mouth was cold from the porch and then it wasn’t. I came so hard against the window frame that my palm left a print in the fog and we both laughed like idiots while the rain kept going.

I did it again today. Same window. Same sweater. My breath writing soft circles on the glass while my other hand went slow under the hem, then less slow, then not slow at all. I said your name into the rain like it might carry downhill. When I came, my forehead hit the pane and the cold shocked me back into my body, and I stayed there a minute with my eyes closed, smiling at nothing, missing you with my whole stupid chest.

The fog is gone now. Just streaks and the dark trees. Your side of the bed is still the colder one. I’m going to leave the porch light on anyway. Habit. Hope. Both.

Come home while the mountain is still this wet. I want you at this window. I want your hands where the sweater won’t stay. I want the next storm to find us already busy.

Forever yours,

Kay

P.S. Your Booby Pillow is parked under the window like it paid rent. I let it. Temporary. When you get here, that spot is yours — and so is everything under this sweater.