Clouds of Ice

Author's Notes: This piece is told in a non-linear fashion. Whilst there is a beginning and an end, it is a description of events that do not happen one after the other. Therefore, it jumps around slightly. This was a university piece that had to be between 2000 and 3000 words.Thanks for reading!

“I’m not going to make it,” she says, anxiety clawing up her throat. Time slides silently by on the wall, red seconds changing, counting down. There are three minutes left before the baggage gate closes, as many minutes as there are people in line before her. “Shit. I’m not going to make it,” she says, and there might be the tiniest bit of relief in her voice as she says it.

“You travelling alone?” he asks, Irish accent clear in his tone. She turns away from the tiny window and nods, smiles.

“Yes. First time abroad, actually,” she says. She smiles again, flirting subtly, thoughts of another in her head. A person that she would be meeting soon. He smiles back.

“That’s very brave. Are you okay?” She doesn’t understand, for a moment. She looks out of the window.

“What? Oh. Yes. Fine,” she says. “I figure, if I don’t have a problem with trains, why should I have a problem with aeroplanes?” Her fingers brush the panel beside her seat and she plays with the controls there. A blast of cool air, much appreciated, hits her in the face.

“That’s very logical.” She glances up, reminded of someone else again.

“I suppose.” The world below disappears under white, like fog, at first, then thicker, like nothing she can describe. She closes the partition on the clouds, strangely disturbed.

When she opens it again, it takes a moment to understand that what is below is not cloud, but ice. The monitor before her says that it is -34 degrees Celsius and she presses her hand against the glass. It’s thicker than she thought it would be and webs of frost are beginning to coat the outside of it. She wishes, vaguely, that she could wind down the window and feel the cold bite, even knowing that it would be cold enough to burn. Like that first moment after she puts her hand under the faucet and she’s not sure whether the water is hot or cold.

The Irishman is asleep next to her, his head tilted back and mouth open. She can’t sleep, so she puts headphones in and thumbs at her mp3, circling through tracks as she gazes down. The endless white is just a little too sharp to be clouds. Unbroken, but not in the least bit fluffy.

Night chases them. The whole flight is made on a backdrop of colour, clearer than she’s ever seen. Perpetual sunset, darkening as they head up North and then lightening as they descent to San Francisco. The plane is going at five hundred miles an hour, fast enough to outrun time and she lands in afternoon daylight, the sun still high in the sky.

What remains of the mediocre airline food splashes the inside of the toilet bowl with rich, wet sounds. It’s somehow pathetic that the first thing she does in America is throw up. She sighs, stands up, and flushes the toilet. Her stomach settled, she brushes her teeth and her hair. There’s only so much she can do to look presentable after a ten hour flight, but it’s important. Sam’s waiting.

Sam’s waiting, and she does none of the things that she’d dreamed of in the plane. She doesn’t grasp his chin and kiss him; she doesn’t look deep into his eyes. She just stares, and her smile is awkward. It’s just as well, really; his mother’s with him.

It’s amazing how difficult it is to turn the relationship physical. She walks, the cold biting at her skin, and the inches between them could be miles. They haven’t even touched, and she feels the distinct lack of it clearly. Their relationship is based on words, never physical. How could it be with an ocean between them?

It’s not true that you can’t miss what you’ve never had. Every time they should be, could be, touching and they aren’t, she misses it… and yet she can’t quite bring herself to reach out.

She’s in the car, staring out of the window. Sam stares out of the opposite one and she can’t help but think that they’re in separate worlds. With a brush of fingers, could those worlds collide? She focuses on it, plays it out in her head again and again. She can just reach out, take his hand in hers. There’s an uneasy squiggling in her stomach, like she’s eaten worms, and she wishes she’s already done it so that she doesn’t have to do it. It doesn’t make sense, and that infuriates her, so she doesn’t take his hand.

They remain in their own worlds for a total of two days. Then he leans against her as if it means nothing at all and they’re no longer alone. She hardly even notices the hot press of another body against her side. When she does, it’s all she can think about and it’s like a dam has broken. She still can’t reach out, do anything; she’s far too nervous for that… but she feels like it wasn’t all words and pretty phrases.

The next time, he places his head, warm and heavy, in her lap. She runs her fingers through his hair and it’s the most natural thing in the world. She scrapes her nails over his scalp, feeling him shudder and twitch, and that’s far more interesting than the film they’re watching. Emboldened, her hand explores the graceful curve of his neck, long nails dragging and catching. He takes deep breaths, but she doesn’t dare do more. The smell of apples lingers on her fingertips.

They only have ten days. Ten days to fuck, to give their relationship everything it can’t have whilst they are apart. Ten days, and they’re taking too long. She thinks about contact, aches for it every second and yet finds it so hard to reach out and take it. She knows he would be receptive. She wonders what she’s so scared of.

They sleep in the same bed on the third night, and the fourth, and every night thereafter. They sleep, and they cuddle, but they don’t kiss. She’s amazed by how easily sleep comes. She doesn’t mind when he stirs, or when he steals the duvet. It’s endearing. It makes her want to reach out and kiss him every morning. She never does.

After their first fight, they make cookies. He starts without her and she is bitter throughout the making of the dough, the cutting of the cookies and the baking of them. She scolds herself and makes an effort as they are making the icing. She loses herself in patterns. Smiling, she takes one of the heart-shaped cookies and writes their initials in pink and orange. She hands it to him and he smiles at her. She wishes that he would kiss her.

They watch a movie together, and whilst there are couples kissing and cuddling all around them, she doesn’t even take his hand. She thinks about it, like she thinks about so many other things, but she can’t bring herself to take the final step and do it. The movie is spoiled and she snaps at him, frustrated, in the car. Why can’t he touch her? Why can’t she touch him? Why can’t it be easy?

Whenever they curl up together, she touches his hair, his neck, and if she’s feeling bold, his shoulders. Her nails scratch, her hands caress. She hopes to arouse him enough that he’ll touch her - he never seems to, not really, but that’s okay. She understands that he’s nervous, too. The popcorn is greasy on her fingers, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just sighs, shivers, and takes a shower later.

She tries so hard to make him laugh. When they laugh, it’s easy to believe that the relationship isn’t doomed. Every time she hears his soft chuckle, she feels a glow of pride, something that might just be love. She’s too inexperienced to tell, for sure, but it makes her reach out and take his hand. It’s almost an accident, and she’s surprised by how easy it is.

The smell of redwood is all around them, green and earthy and fresh. They left the buzz of tourists long ago and the forest is never silent. His hand is sweaty in hers, and it hurts every time that he lets go when someone walks past. She doesn’t hesitate to recapture it when they are alone again. She takes his hand back again and again, until they get closer to the laughter and the shouting. Then he doesn’t seem to want it anymore.

Dinner with his family is not an awkward affair. She smiles at his father and answers all of their inane questions about England. They are not deep questions. They are meaningless and pointless. She doesn’t mind because they are questions that are easy to answer. They eat and they talk about nothing. Yet, somehow, it’s easier than talking to Sam. She is silent on the ride back to his house.

She wakes with him crying in the bed next to her. For a moment, she contemplates just going back to sleep. She’s not entirely sure what to do, but sleep aides her. She can’t overthink things when she’s half asleep. She turns toward him, wrapping her arms around him in an awkward embrace. One hand comes up to stroke the back of his neck and he settles against her, his sobs shaking against her chest. Eventually, she falls back asleep.

The argument is filled with tears and recriminations. It acts as a catalyst. When they touch, there is nothing frenzied about it. Her touch is just the same as it was before… except when it isn’t. She slides a hand down over his stomach and rests her palm over the heat and hardness she can feel under thin pyjama bottoms. She curves her hand around it. Their bodies slide awkwardly together, their breathing fast and heated. She bites him hard enough to bruise and scratches her nails down his back. He chokes out quiet moans into oppressive darkness. She bangs her head a total of three times and she doesn’t come.

They never kiss.

He breaks down on the day she leaves, curling up into the couch and spilling silent, shaking tears. She sits next to him, awkward and alarmed, and asks him what is wrong. All he can do is shake his head and she takes him into her arms, holding him until he calms. She knows that this is because she’s leaving, and she’s stunned by the depth of his emotion for her. She doesn’t feel the same way. She doesn’t dread leaving him, not like he does. Her eyes, as always, remain dry.

The airport is a whirl of activity, fake smiles and fake people. Departure is counted down in red numbers on the wall, time sliding past. They exchange vows of love, and it might be real, but it’s made false and fake in their minds by the lack of contact. There is no kiss goodbye. There is no hug. There is a moment of awkwardness where they both know they should be touching. Sighing, she turns to go through security. When she looks back, he‘s still there, and she, waves from behind glass. Next time she turns around, he is gone.

As she waits to board, she thinks about the absent kiss. She wonders what it would have been like, and deep down she knows that it was their only chance. They will not last another six months. Maybe, if there had been passion… if they had kissed…

She thinks that she might be too logical for passion.

Takeoff makes the bile rise in her throat despite the travel sickness pills. She swallows a few times and stares out of the window, watching the world fade, disappear under white too thick to be fog. It’s like snow, she decides. Not sharp enough to be ice, but similar.

The first thing she does back on English soil is throw up. Then she brushes her teeth and her hair, her hands trembling faintly.

She turns to the girl next to her. “You travelling alone?” she asks.

When she looks out of the window, the white is sharp again. Raised areas are razor-sharp, slashing at her eyes. Her pupils reflect a light that’s too jagged to be purity.

She closes the partition.