The Coldest Winter

by Brittainy C. Cherry

“My friends call me Dick.” “What’s your actual name?” “Doesn’t matter,” he said, flicking his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “Because by night's end, you’ll be calling me a dick or riding my dick. Either way, it’s Dick to you.”

“Liar.” “Liar,” he agreed. “How about we lie together as we…lie together,” he offered.

Grief was a complex creature. One day, you were sad, and the next day filled you with rage.

“I’m learning that time passing doesn’t make it easier. Sometimes it just makes the grief quieter.”