A Tale for the New Year: Read it Free.

'I'm seeing in the New Year, with my chosen lover, in front of thefire. Wonderful. Until, that is, an unidentified rural noise makes the townienervous and something must be done to restore the magic.'
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But, Baby, It's Cold Outside.
A Seasonal Short Story
Stuart Aken
For all that it's black asthe proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibilityin the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-definednoise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking aperformance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white Bmovies from the forties.The failure of the light turns out to be nothingsinister. 'Just a blown bulb.''Replace it, then.''Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelightserve us better?'The response is unprintable and indicates anunhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequateillumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.'Me?''It's your house.''As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth andsafety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?''Along with the rest of your gender, you claimequality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.''So far, I've experienced little up, except theobvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has tome.'He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I knowI'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. Iwonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes andcars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, whichhas so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and thebest table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for theluxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause ofhis reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should dowhatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man,after all.Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night,examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who putsup with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling offools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but ismade suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.'It's just that old gate I stacked against theside of the house. The wind's blown it over.''Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.''It's pitch bloody black out there. How am Isupposed to see anything?''Use a torch.''Batteries are flat.''Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all thelights, assuming they work.''They do. Mostly.'Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but heaccepts. 'Good.''And your monster of the night is just going tohang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of ourintent?''Our?''We're conspiring jointly in the process, even ifI'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.''Mmm.'I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.''Yes, very lovely.''You really expect me to venture forth into thewild night with…?''Put something on and stop making excuses.'I don seductive red satin recently abandoned,rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold outthere. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continuewhere we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggesthe turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into thefrozen void.'You're not going out there like that on your own,are you?''Are you coming with me?''Are you mad?'I try a simple facial message but it doesn't getthrough. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, Isuppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not bealone?'A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'llworry about you.''Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'He avoids the shrug that his body and myexpectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.'Not enough to be the gentleman?''Equality of opportunity. This is yours.''But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case,I'm not worried by the noise.'Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicativethat this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much ofhis subtlety I have learned.Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbialand I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening.I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving andunmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin towonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.At last, a faint glow signals the start of hissimple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he sawme. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to hisirrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't getinvolved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway.But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkablylike a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustlywonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to theattraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. Iponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty ofsuperficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall theextraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced sincewe met.The light at the back escapes at last through theraised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area ofgarden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow,augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness andthe tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied anyidea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entrybefore I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm temptedto re-enter.'What sort of noise?'He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance hisvoice has to travel. 'I told you.'I have no recollection of either being told or, ifI have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.''Oh! You're useless. There's something out there.Just see what it is.''Well, there's a large area of garden, mostlyimmobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it'ssufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's afence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills,dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'As I list the inventory, he emerges into thekitchen.'Idiot! I mean something moving, something thatshouldn't be there!''Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specifiedor un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnightstroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?''God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here withthat door open in my robe...''I suggest you shut the door in your robe and giveme a…''Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of softthudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towellingrobe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can askfrom what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.Disconsolate at being left out in the cold,wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather thanprotect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet fromfrozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by nowand the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out anyobvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residualconcerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assuredthat his will not diminish in the waiting.The corner of the house allows the gale to swirlincreasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem andspatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness downmy legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim lightat the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might belurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brickbarrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lanethat leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate thenew arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have nocoal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we alldesire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection tosuch craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed toperform that particular ritual, as the man.The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts,hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of restingflowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now thedrive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like alittle boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyesof the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeledutilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip onthe ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocksslide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt withonly a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionateparts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggleupright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.The last side of the house, also in darkness,reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in thedrifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, whichhad been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. Butwill he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him thissolution to his mystery?I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a darkhuddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with myhead buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown handmolests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'mat the back door.He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by thedoor in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminishedand evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms thehuddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack anddefend.''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clisionback there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin'an' all that.'It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of thethree facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefullywithout the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.By the time I've turned, he's vanished intoconcealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearestneighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture ofdeparting gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with mysolution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without hisclose company.'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on mydrive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumerpressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as amystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless toresist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced.She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, becausehe's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politelyoffers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in thegrate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visitedother neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snowand we close the door on night.With her departure, my role in his earlierexposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shovingme unceremoniously back into my armchair.'If you think you're having your wicked way withme after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.''I don't think she was interested in you; naked orotherwise.''You should've warned me. I don't like strangewomen seeing me undressed.'I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when Isuspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded,unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climbthe stairs.He lingers at the turn on the landing taking allpromise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'Unsure whether this is an invitation or simplyanother assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire,unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injuredparty to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glasswith the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare intothe flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that startedmore auspiciously.Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicionthat he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without mycompany. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneakoutside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in frontof the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security andwarmth of me and the blazing logs.I invite him to open the door in my robe. He doesso willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fallover again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't evenmention the noise, this time. Aahhh.
###This story, whilst free to read here, is copyright the author, StuartAken, 2011. Please respect the author's work in producing this and avoidpirating, copying or sharing other than through this blog, to which I'm happyfor you to link with all your friends.#I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please considerit a gift in appreciation of your time and support.If you'd like to read more of my work, please see the books in the righthand column. A click on each will take you to a place you can read more and/orbuy.