Alpine

Gambit 3 - Eyes

The opened can of beans sat neglected on the counter as he paced in front of the fireplace for hours. I passed the time by staring at it and its unopened companion. It seemed wrong to leave the task half finished. Plus, my empty stomach felt its trivial physical needs trumped my brain's desire to stew in misery. I drained the cans, rinsed their contents, and rummaged around until I found two bowls. Once filled, I slid his bowl of stale black beans to the teetering edge of the counter. He would discover it if and when he wanted it. Despite everything, I still had enough self-preserving pettiness left in me to keep the equally expired, but newly opened, pintos for myself.

One by one, I popped them into my mouth, chewing them lazily, like an overfed cow. Occasionally, I would look back to check the window. The snow dunes were still there. At least the weather had eased. There was only a gentle dusting of powder drifting down. The cabin would have looked Hallmark-card-charming from the outside. Well, until someone noticed the makeshift escape ramp and buried car. Charming images are never quite what they seem, are they?

As I chased the last two wayward beans around with my spoon, the rhythmic tap of his footsteps ceased. The scraping of my utensil was deafening in the silence, so I stopped too. I glanced at him but could not read his expression in the dying firelight. Whatever thought had gripped him resolved itself. He quick walked towards the door. Yanking his jacket off the top of the fallen coat tree, he was outside before he had even zipped it up.

Whatever new scheme he had come up with, I was bound to have a part in it. Reluctantly, I abandoned my bowl and plodded over to the coat tree. I stared at it. It would lie prone on the ground forever unless I did something about it. Sighing, I righted it and moved it further from the door. Hopefully, it would take no further abuse there. I put on my ski jacket. My gloves. Buried my hands deep in the jacket's pockets. Turtled my neck down into its collar.

The door slammed open, grazing me before I had time to react. He stumbled in backwards like he was dragging something. The door ricocheted off the wall into his shoulder. He shoved it out of the way again. I caught it and held it for him. With another frustrated tug, he pulled the full length of an uncoiled garden house inside. Panting, he threw down the end he was carrying, commanded "Close it," and stormed into the kitchen.

On the way, he yanked off a pair of gloves he must have found while fetching the hose. As he stuffed them in his pockets, a bungee cord fell onto the floor. I looked outside. Sitting by the ramp were the disk sled and the snowmobile. Its handlebar was now adorned with a matching red and orange helmet. All the parts for the Plan B. As I closed the door, I mumbled, "God dammit."

Behind me, he noisily hoovered down black beans. Between mouthfuls, he put down his bowl and spoon. Taking a serrated bread knife from a knife block, he underhand tossed it at me. I bolted back into the wall of the cabin, yelping, "What the fuck!" The knife landed just shy of the hose.

He picked up his bowl again. "Cut an eight foot length from the end."

I knew better than to ask why before complying. Gingerly, I picked up the knife. It was solid and looked new. Sharp. It would be such a waste to dull it on the plastic hose. Then again, a sharp knife was better than he deserved. A blunt one would make more painful wounds. When it dawned on me that I was contemplating murder, I swallowed down a foul taste at the back of my mouth. I pushed the homicidal thoughts away and sawed off a piece of hose. He shoveled the last of his beans into his mouth when I handed it to him.

As he appraised it, I asked, "What's it for?"

"Siphoning the gas out of my car. That's your job." He gave me back the hose piece. I stared blankly at it. God, I did not want to ask him. "You're dismissed."