Mud was stuck on his boots. She scolded him. Said take them off at the door. She had a broom and looked like she could hit him.
‘Mud in December,’ he thought. It was tough to work in.
He was disgusted. He wanted snow, clear nights, frozen firewood, ice on the lake, solid beer, numb fingers, cold ears and rosy ‘fucking’ cheeks. Winter was his favorite season and the delay was pissing him off.
He wanted the kind of cold that only body heat could cure. Instead it was rain and mud.
He put his boot down off the mat. She swung the broom, but meant to miss. He ducked anyway. And set off chasing her around the fire. Once he caught her they were both ornery. Him, for the weather. Her, for missing him with the broom. Or so he thought, he could never figure her out. Regardless, they made peace with the rain in December.