Short Story: Awakened

He stepped away from the bar as a cold hint of sobriety passed in his eyes, leaving the half-finished pint, with its foam running down the sides, forgotten in his stead. The revelers paid little heed as he walked towards the glass door through which winter, and its blue nighttime snow, could be seen. The headlights of a car passed over the man as he came under the falling white flakes.

“You heard me,” said a voice.

“You’re alive,” he replied, staring after the car as it pulled onto the road, bearing its light far away. Once it turned around the hill all there was to see by was a dim sort of lamp which flickered in an untrustworthy manner. As it cast what meagre light it would, shadows of the snow streaked across his ruddy face like tears.

“How long have you been in there?” she asked.

“Here?” he said aloud. “Round a year now. I was in another place for five before it closed. That was the longest stretch so far.” He grew silent as he rubbed his head in his palm, his fingers curling in his hair. “And you? Where have you been?”

“The job’s not finished, Mike,” she obfuscated, “and it’s been winter here for a year. Don’t you think you should be moving on?”

“Why? The people here love skiing.”

Then the light flickered and died, and he knew she’d be silent for a while. He glanced over his shoulder, but soon trudged off through the muddied sludge of the parking lot. Stepping onto the road where the daily traffic had been good enough to form ruts in the ice, he walked along the black line of asphalt hearing the crunch of salt beneath his boots.

It was four miles before he found her again, and leaning against a Main Street lamppost he said, “Better reception?”

“Much,” she rejoined. “Are you in?”

“I was never out.”