The fire was lit in the corner of the room. The flames glowing with a bit more intensity every time the chimney breathed. She walked into the room; in from the cold. Took off the glove on her left hand, one finger at a time, and set it on the table in the middle of the room. The right one followed. She took off her coat slowly, walking over to the window to see the snow falling, to look up and watch the snowflakes instead of nestling her nose down into her scarf as she had only minutes ago, walking up the street.
This was where they met that time. Once. When he wasn’t so sure how he felt and she was sure that she loved him. Not that she ever told him that. She couldn’t. Madness to hand over your heart when you’re not sure there’s anywhere for it to go. But that didn’t mean she had it any longer. It just sat there dripping in her hand, beating, waiting, growing heavier and drying out in the hot air of this room.
That was a long time ago. Now the room was hot, but only with the heat of the fire. It was no longer full of the wet heat of kisses and smiles, interlocking fingers and glances held too long. The air doesn’t belong to them now. The lovers. Those sighs of his belong to someone else and fill a different room.
This room feels different. The table with the gloves on it. The fire flashing in time with the winter wind. She’s not big enough, what she feels isn’t big enough, to fill it.
She takes a deep breath and kicks her shoes off. The room doesn’t have to be full to be warm. It’s only one night.