ICICLES. 🥶

The sun’s rays did little to melt the daggers of ice. Filthy gray snow caked the street and traveled up the side of the house, obscuring the small, shoulder-high window now steamed by the heat within.
Through the opaque panes, a fireplace lit the room with its breath and illuminated him.
Hunched, he shuffled about, throwing clothes into a dark case, his back turned to her as she walked in.
It’s okay, she said.
He did not turn. But he paused. Only to resume again.
Stop, she said.
Look at me.
Nothing.
She paced towards him and from each step grew shadowed stalks reaching towards him.
She stood an arms length away and looked at him. His ears down to his jaw. His shoulders. His stance so familiar.
She placed a hand on his back and the shuffling stopped.
It’s okay, she reassured again.
She tugged on the cloth in his hands.
Let go and look at me.
She held his now limp hand, warm. They stood that way until he broke the silence.
I can’t stand it.
She held his hand tighter.
If there’s one thing that hurts me most, it’s seeing you hurt, he said.
Me too, she said.
A moment of silence.
No, you don’t understand. I lose my temper and myself too easily.
I know.
I hurt you too often and as a result myself.
And running will solve that?
Another moment of silence.
I hurt you too much. The child. Our child. If I hurt the child I would never forgive myself. The only thing I can do to protect you and our child is to leave. I am a menace to my own love.
Hot drops fell on their hands. She held tighter.
She pulled his arm, turning him around. She placed her hand on his chest.
If you really cared for me, you wouldn’t leave, she said.
No, I really do care for you and that’s why I have to leave.
Your temper is something we can work through. You asked me so many years ago yourself. What can’t we work through? Listen, I need you. Our baby needs you.
She held his eyes in hers.
She continued, It’s not about whether you hurt me or not. It’s about whether our child grows up to have a father. And for you, it’s about whether or not you’ll keep running from your temper or stand up and face it.
But I told you I’m just going to hurt you and the baby. I told you I can’t trust myself, he pleaded.
Well I’m telling you to be the courageous man I fell in love with, she replied.
He took a deep breath, walked past the fireplace and dusted off the small photo, a younger man embracing an even younger woman in a white dress.
He looked up from the photo and met her gaze.
Outside, the icicles began to drip.

Author’s Note: This was an essay I wrote in my junior year of high school in an effort to emulate the style of “Popular Mechanics” by Raymond Carver. I wanted to highlight a raw, human interaction that could be happening behind any closed doors. I think there are many different angles that this interaction could be interpreted from, many contexts that could change who might be in the right or wrong - or if anybody is in the right or wrong at all. What if she’s being too kind and needs to let him go? What if he doesn’t actually have anger issues but wants to create an excuse to leave the situation? What if this is the first time this interaction has happened, or the second, or tenth time? Was the baby a bandaid for something deeper that should have been addressed before it got this far? Is this something that can be overcome? Are the icicles melting signaling a conclusion or the start of another cycle?