Letters To Jon - 2. Letter #2

I felt cold sitting sideways on the window-seat looking out over the front lawn as the last flurries fell gently from the light gray sky. I glanced about, looking for the patchwork quilt I usually kept on the bench but I had forgotten to return it last time and I didn't want to move from my seat, so perfect a vantage point for the serene scene on the other side of the glass. I shivered just a bit as I relished the relaxing Sunday afternoon without a single trace of the usual disquieting thoughts of the impending workday crossing my mind.

The boulders marking the end of the driveway sat like oversized, deformed cupcakes with freshly-fallen thick white frosting; the rough-hewn wooden fence wore a long perfect trail of snow like white mustard on an eight-foot hot dog. Another chill passed through me, though, as I pondered these winter culinary oddities and I was starting to think that I might have to leave my perch in search of a sweater or a throw when I heard footfalls swishing through the powder outside. The sound came from further down the street and I had to lean in close to the glass to see who approached, my breath gathering on the old glass panes, making it hard for me to make out the approaching figure. That didn’t matter though, I had a pretty good idea who it was.

A moment later, the front door opened, and I heard you call out a timid greeting - something I found both charming and amusing since you do it every time you come over, and every time, I tell you that I want you to feel as welcome here as you do in your own home. I answered and bid you to join me in the front room, and as you walked in silently, woolen socks padding on the oak floor, I was able to see you clearly, unhindered by fogged or frosted glass.

You were wearing the soft, bulky wool sweater I gave you, banded in several shades of brown. It looked almost comical on your slight frame, but it served its purpose well, keeping you warm and comfortable outside in the New England winter. Tan, loose-fitting cargo pants covered your legs but they fit your slim hips well, not looking sloppy like they do on so many guys and though I couldn't see it then because you were facing me, I knew they hung from your cute little butt in a most alluring fashion. You had taken off the matching knit gloves already, probably left at the door with your boots, but for whatever reason you had forgotten to remove the matching wool hat, pulled down to your brow but still letting a few locks of your brownish-blond hair peek out in the front. That hair...it was really getting a bit too long, shaggy in back and almost covering your eyes in front, but wearing it that way gives you an impish, rogue-like quality that's just amplified by your smile, and I was drinking in the vision of you like warm apple cider.

You closed the rest of the space between us after I waved you over and I turned my body around so my feet were on the floor, instead of pulled up on the bench beside me. I drew you in closer with my hands on your hips, and you straddled my right knee so your body was just about a foot from mine. Since you're shorter than me, you didn't tower over me in my seated position but you still looked down into my eyes, and I could see the tiny wet droplets on your hat and nose where snowflakes had landed and melted in the inside warmth, but had not yet evaporated. Lifting up my arms, I wrapped you in an embrace that heated me from inside as much as from out, and your arms wrapped around me in return. My earlier wishes for a quilt or sweater dissipated with the chill, and I breathed out a sigh of happy winter Sunday contentment.

I felt you pull back just a little, and I looked up to see you leaning down with your eyes half-closed and lips parted, seeking a kiss that I was happy to share. Your nose, with tiny droplets of expired snow, brushed past my cheek.

Have you ever walked outside in the winter as an icy drip fell from an icicle, perhaps hanging from an eve or tree branch overhead, falls onto the back of your neck? With that sort of jolt, you evaporated, like warm breath on a sub-zero morning. I awoke from my accidental nap, sprawled on the couch, my laptop still balanced precariously on my chest, and my cat poking my cheek with his chilly, damp nose.

I suppose the comfort you give me in the winter of my dreams is better than no comfort at all, Jon.