and her peculiar uneasiness would probably disappear. He slid his
strong hands down her sides to her hips. He pulled her against him.
Punctuating his whispered words with soft kisses to her throat, cheeks,
eyes, and the corners of her mouth, he said, 'How about tonight ...
when the snow's falling ... after we've had . . . a glass of wine or
two . . . by the fire . ..
romantic music ... on the radio ... when we're feeling relaxed . .
.'
'...
relaxed,' she said dreamily. 'Then we get together ...'
'... mmmmmmm, together ...'
'. . . and we have a really wonderful, wonderful . . .'
'... wonderful...'
'Snowball fight.' She smacked him playfully on the cheek. 'Beast.
I'll have rocks in my snowballs.'
'Or we could make love.'
'Sure you don't want to go outside and make snow angels?'
'Not now that I've taken more time to think about
'Get dressed,
smartass. We've got shopping to do.'
Heather found Toby in the living room, dressed for the day. He was on
the floor in front of the TV, watching a program with the sound off.
'Big snow's coming tonight,' she told him from the archway, expecting
his excitement to exceed her own -because this also would be his first
experience with a white winter. He didn't respond. 'We're going to
buy a couple of sleds when we go to town, be ready for tomorrow.' He
was as still as stone. His attention remained entirely on the
screen.
From where she stood, Heather couldn't see what show had so gripped
him. 'Toby?' She stepped out of the archway and into the living
room.
'Hey, kiddo, what're you watching?' He acknowledged her at last as she
approached him. 'Don't know what it is.' His eyes appeared to be out
of focus, as though he wasn't actually seeing her, and he gazed once
more at the television.
The screen was filled with a constantly evolving flow of arabic forms,
reminiscent of those Lava lamps that had once been so popular. The
lamps had always been in two colors, however, while this display
progressed in infinite shades of all the primary colors, now bright,
now dark. Ever-changing shapes melted together, curled and flexed,
streamed and spurted, drizzled and purled and throbbed in a ceaseless
exhibition of amorphic chaos, surging at a frenzied pace for a few
seconds, then oozing sluggishly, then faster again.
'What is this?' Heather asked. Toby shrugged. Endlessly recomposing
itself, the colorful curvilinear abstract was interesting to watch and
frequently beautiful.
The longer she stared at it, however, the more disturbing it became,
although for no reason she could discern. Nothing in its patterns was
inherently ominous or menacing. Indeed, the fluid and dreamy
