Member-only story
Flash Fiction
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
Father and son talk
Our dog lay curled up on the rug in front of a roaring fire. My father added another piece of wood to the fire and stoked it higher. A puff of smoke hung in front of the hearth before it was sucked out of the chimney.
I glanced out the window and noted that the snow was falling harder and faster.
“It looks like we got 6 inches already,” my father says.
I nod my head and say, “The weatherman on the radio expects 12 to 18 inches of snow overnight with a #freeze in the morning.”
He looks out the window, lost in the thought. His left-hand moves up to his chest where his heart is.
“Do you want me to go out and shovel snow? Get ahead of the big dump?”
“Yes,” he puffs.
I get up from my chair and put on my winter jacket and boots.
“Don’t forget these,” he says and hands me my gloves.
“Thanks,” I say, “Make a pot of coffee for later, please?”
He nods his head.
I open the door and grab the snow shovel right outside and walk to the driveway. I put on my gloves and adjust my hat, the snow shovel handle leans against my body.
I can feel my father’s eyes on me, watching me from the window, as I get to work. My shovel cuts through the snow like a hot knife on butter as I clear my first path to the road.
