You think I have bad circulation. You leave the windows open all night, and I walk through the fresh air wrapped in wool sweaters and puppy dog slippers. You open windows, I close them and we smile politely at each other in the hallway. You demand, “How can you be cold?” And I touch my fingertips to the back of your neck, glacier peaks on hot stone. You freeze and I understand Medusa.
At night I sleep with three blankets, two cats, and the gnawing inclination that you’ve opened the windows again. I get up, eat some of your cheese, close the windows, and lay in bed rubbing my ice cold toes together. In an hour you will get up, eat some of my grapes, and so we will continue, rising and falling like glass panels.
Sometimes you will also turn on several fans, turning our two bedroom apartment into fucking Norway, or wherever that place is that uses all the windmills. When you do this I want to take a hammer and smash the fans to bits, then put those bits into the litter box and let Francine piss on your turbines of torture. But I don’t. I just turn off the fans, close the windows, and finish your cheese. It’s delicious.
When our lease is over we’ll stop the cold war. You’ll pack up your fans and my sweaters will be folded away. We’ll hug, but I’ll be thinking your neck feels too hot against my cheek, and you’ll continue wondering if I’m actually cold-blooded. We both feel relieved, and neither of us cries. You’ll build a house that has no windows to close, just big open spaces in the walls, and I’ll get old and move farther south even though I’m afraid of tarantulas and Southern Catholics. I’ll finally admit you were right about my bad circulation, but only as I lie dying, shaking and shivering, frozen in Florida.