Ron and Jessica sit in their Mercedes, watching the snow accumulate on the windshield, piling up in the city park, a deep bluish tint settling over Lone Cone.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Ron?”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I thought you were the one who was supposed to call and get us room reservations.”
“We weren’t gonna stay here, Jess. Remember? Spend the day and drive to Aspen.”
“Well it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
“No.”
“So maybe having reservations as a backup plan might’ve been a bright idea. Right, Ron?” He’s been staring through the glass, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and now he glances over at his wife, into that wild-eyed, exacting glare he figures she terrorizes her firm’s paralegals and secretaries with.
“What?” he says.
“Why didn’t you take care of that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you, Ron. I don’t want to sleep in my fucking car tonight. That isn’t what I had in mind for my Christmas vacation while busting my ass these last—”
“I get it, Jess.”
Ron pulls the key out of the ignition.
“What are you doing?”
“Baby, let’s go get a big, hot meal, drink the best wine on the list, and forget about all this shit for a while, okay?”
Jessica pushes her short brown hair behind her ears, Ron feeling, hoping he’s cut the right wire, disarmed the bomb.
“That actually sounds nice.” He has, and he loves this about her—how she can go from psychobitch to DEFCON 5 in two nanoseconds.
“My cell phone’s charged,” he says, “so let’s think positive thoughts. Maybe while we’re eating, we get a call from the inn, saying they’ve had a cancellation. This whole thing might just work out.”
Jessica’s smile makes Ron slide his hand over the console, let it work down between her blue-jeaned thighs.
“Hey now,” she warns. “You gotta earn that, big boy.”
“You think so?”
Apparently not, because she pulls his hand into her crotch and moves her hips forward and Ron undoes the button on her jeans and pushes his fingers between cotton and skin, until he feels the warm, wet slick, wondering if that’s been there since the rage, has a hunch it has.
She moans, stretching for the button on his slacks. Pulls his hand out of her pants and leans across the console into his lap.
He reaches down and finds the right button and the seat hums back, giving Jessica more headspace between his stomach and the steering wheel.
The windshield cracks. Flinching, Ron’s eyes shoot open and Jessica bites down and then pops off, and they both say, “What the fuck?” in unison.
-7-
Spiderwebs of splitting glass expand at right angles across the windshield as Ron zips his pants, throws the door open, and climbs out.
Standing in the pouring snow, he glimpses three shadows bolting across the park, hears the high cackle of children’s laughter.
Jessica screams, “This is a hundred thirty-thousand dollar Benz, you little shits!” as Ron lifts the fist-size rock off the hood.
“Perfect little town, huh?” Jessica says.
“Damn.”
“What’s wrong?”
Ron rubs his crotch.
“Oh, I’m sorry, babe,” Jessica says. “Startled me when the rock hit.”
“And that’s what you do when you get startled? Bite?” Ron tosses the rock into the snow. “Let’s go get dinner.”
“No, let’s report this to the police—”
“Look, I’m cold and hungry and my penis hurts. Let’s go get drunk at a nice restaurant and deal with this tomorrow. Positive thoughts, remember?”
-8-
They walk holding hands up the sidewalk of Main, snow dumping through the illumination of streetlamps.
“What time is it?” Jessica asks.
Ron glances at his watch. “Seven-fifteen.”
“So where the fuck is everybody? This town’s dead.”
She has a point. Every store they visited in the afternoon has closed shop for the night, the storefronts dark, not a sound in Lone Cone save the streetlamps.
They pass a brewpub, boarded up for the winter.
A cafe called The Sandwich Shoppe that only opens for lunch.
A bistro that has gone out of business.
As they near the north end of Main, Jessica says, “Ron, nothing’s open.”
“Yeah, seems that way, huh?”
“I’m
Ron steps out into the middle of Main, looks up and down the street—nothing moving, not even tire tracks through the five inches of snow that has fallen since late afternoon.
“This is bad, Ron, very—”
“Wait.”
“What?”
He smiles, probably hasn’t noticed it because the lights are so dim, but one block down on the other side of the street, through the first floor windows of an old building, he spots candlelight and tables, the lowlit ambience of what can only be, of what has to be, a fine restaurant.
-9-
As they stand at the podium in Christine’s, waiting for the hostess, Jessica leans over and whispers into Ron’s ear, “Why do you have an erection darling?”
“It’s not new,” he says. “Since you um,” he clicks his teeth together, “it won’t go down.”
“Oh. Lovely.”
They’re shown to a table by a window with a view onto the street, where they sit waiting for their server and watching the snow fill in their tracks.
“Kind of slow, aren’t they?” Jessica says.
“Relax, babe.”
“We’re the only ones in the restaurant.”
Ron reaches across the table, holds his wife’s hand.
“Despite all the drama, it’s wonderful to be here with you.”
She smiles, eyes shining in the firelight, says, “We’ve worked hard for this trip.”
“Should’ve done this a long time ago.”
“Easier said than done for a couple of workaholics.”
“You been thinking about work?”
