Before his
alarm sounds in the morning, I sometimes get up and push it back by a few
minutes. He wakes then to my shuffling in the dark room. Even with the shades
up, the bedroom remains dark; dawn come so late this time of year. I crawl back
under the covers and wrap my arms around him. Waking is much easier on the
system this way, quiet and tender. We talk in whispers about the oncoming day.
How many meetings does he have? What will I write? Skin hot, breath stale,
sleep crumbs deep in the corners of our eyes. The sheets on our bed are
ill-fitting because we skimped on them at IKEA rather than hauling an extra set
home from the U.S. in our luggage. The
cats mew outside the door, hungry and bored. Sleet slides down the gabled
windows, only visible when a car's headlights reflect through it. Temperatures
hover just above freezing. When the alarm goes off this time, he's already
awake, rises and shuts it off. Ditto the fan. The hollow beside me in the bed
goes cold quickly. While he showers, I go to the kitchen and brew his coffee in
a to-go cup. Half a teaspoon of sugar and a dash of milk. While he dresses for
the day, I help him gather the winter necessities: wool socks, cashmere scarf,
gloves. I take his earmuffs and clasp them onto the plastic coffee cup so that
they become warm, then transfer them over his ears. Because I don't own a
bathrobe, I wear a thick sweater and a green blanket wrapped around my hips
like a sarong. I ask if he likes my outfit. He says it's impressive how I make
do, how I somehow survive. I hope he takes the hint and plans to get me a robe
for Christmas. I worry that he will take it a step too far and order a Snuggie
or a Slanket or something equally uncouth. Perhaps a One Piece, so I can truly
be a Norwegian. He likes the way I do his scarf, halved, with the ends tucked
back through the bend. As he pats across his chest and hips, feeling his
pockets for keys, phone, badge, and pen, I make sure the scarf is high across
the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from the shower. I worry he might
freeze. But the true cold of winter, the blue dive into below-freezing temps, hasn't
happened yet. A dip is scheduled at the end of the day. We keep the weather tab
open on our computer all the times--an oracle to consult before we walk out the
door. Before he leaves, I go to the front room and turn on the
red paper star hanging in the circle window so that it glows. If he crosses the
street and looks back, I want him to see how cozy our home is. Just a reminder.
Our winter days run together this way, a dark ribbon of layered clothing and
other survival routines. Weekends are for adventures, if we can coax ourselves
out the door and into the chill. Evenings are quiet and spent in recovery. I
cook. We eat. We talk. We laugh aloud at episodes of The Daily Show, Modern
Family, The Office. Sometimes he asks me to read aloud to him, something I love
to do. If he has a late evening conference call, I am in bed before him,
reading and ignoring the cats as they scamper laps around the apartment. When
he joins me, he plants kisses in my hair.