Human Popsicles Littering the Frozen Wastes
“I am not made for this,” Rivi says to me.
“It’s winter,” I say. “Complaining about it won’t do any good.”
“This isn’t winter,” she says. “It’s the return of the Ice Age.”
I can’t argue with her about the cold. The thermometer in my car this morning on the way in to work was reading -2 Fahrenheit, so yes: it’s pretty goddamn cold out.
“I’m still set on San Francisco temperature, Sebastian,” Rivi says. “Winter is supposed to be sixty degrees in the daytime, fifty-five at night. This is colder than the inside of the freezer in the basement. This is just evil, evil to the bone.”
“The frozen bone,” I say.
“Exactly! I went out to check the mailbox today, and do you know what I saw?”
“Junk mail probably?”
“Not even!” she says. “I never even made it to the box. There were too many people lying out in their yards, frozen to death when they tried to go out to get their own mail from their own boxes. Literally human popsicles littering the frozen wastes.”
“I think you’re exaggerating maybe just a bit,” I say.
“Hardly. I’d show you photos, but it was so cold that my phone refused to unlock, so I couldn’t take any pictures. It’s madness, Sebastian. Pure, ungodly madness.”
“You know it’s only just barely January,” I say. “There’s still a few more months of this to get through.”
“I am going to die before spring comes,” she says. “There is no other option. Only death. Frozen death. Icicle death. Deadly cold death.”
“I’ll tell you one thing that’s hot, Rivi.”
“What’s that, pray tell?”
“Your overacting is as heated as a thousand fiery suns.”
Rivi crosses her arms and frowns at me.
“That’s cold, Sebastian.”
“Definitely,” I say. “At least -2 degrees.”
“I’m going to stab you to death with an icicle before winter is over,” she says.
“Another human popsicle on a stick,” I say.
“A flavor nobody wants. Sarcasm flavor. The worst of all options at the ice cream truck.”
“Nobody held an icicle to your head and forced you to move here, you know.”
“Shut your frozen pie hole, buster.”
“Happy New Year, Rivi.”
“Stuff it, Sebastian,” she growls. “Happy New Year. Shut up.”
Latest 3 posts
Older Posts I'd Like You to See