Frost

I loved him less now, certainly. It was happening both fast and slow, like different stages in a downhill bike race. For a while we cruised flats together, but some slalom turns towards the low sun and black trees saw the horizon fall away and we were coming down at unhinged speeds. His face then, flaring between shadow, was pitted as pumice. Cruel words spilled from him over dinner. What remained was to decide whether I loved him at all, or enough, and if not then what next. I had seen in a window a pair of leather gloves that I desired more, but of course this is different. I debated which I would prefer close to me when I woke. Mostly the gloves, I decided, one perfectly atop the other on the teak dresser, next to favourite ear rings, the faintest reflection of their silver in the glossed palm of the uppermost mitt, like the ghost of change. But this was mid-winter, remember, which offered warmth an unfair advantage and, also they demanded nothing of me, were there only to help.