It’s Cold
“Damn it…”
Paris never bothered to check if the restaurant was closed on a holiday.
So we were left there in the cold, two starving mice scuttling away, underdressed, fighting against the attacking wind. So I couldn’t help but blame him for everything. For inviting me out on the coldest day of the year. For yet again making the same stupid mistakes like not checking holiday hours. For even considering that I somehow forgave him after October.
“It’s cold,” was all he said as our breath turned into puffs of smoke right in front of our eyes.
“Thanks, Mr Obvious. Or maybe, Mr Didn’t-check-if-restaurant-was-open, because you never care about the circumstance.”
He pretended like he didn’t hear, changing the subject without a trace of guilt.
“My house isn’t far. You wanna come in and sit for a while instead?”
His house was messy the last time I’d been there. The AC had broken, and the heatwave was literally cooking me alive. All the way back in July. Back when I was still dumb and happy with us together.
We walked and walked while the temperature bit at our ears, nose, and toes. Before long, the numbing sensation had set in. My limbs felt like they were shrivelling, motivated by a primitive urge to curl up into a ball and hibernate like a small animal. One joint made an alarming cracking sound with every step that I took. What remained of the sun was dipping over the horizon as the streetlights blinked on, a dreamy yellow glow that led us on.
His apartment wasn’t any better. The AC sat lifeless on the wall, still broken, and there were no heaters in sight. It was surprisingly clean, however. Maybe not the best thing in this situation, as with most of the random boxes lining the walls gone, the insulation disappeared too.
It felt more like walking into a freezer than an actual, livable home.
“I’ll take your jacket,” he offered.
“I’m content with it on.”
“No, no, I insist.” His gentlemanly gesture did not serve me any good, as the last layer of protection was brutally ripped off me.
“Don’t you think it’s, maybe, a bit cold in here?”
The thermometer by the fridge read seven degrees Celsius. Jesus.
Paris laughed as he plopped the jacket onto the back of the sofa, taking brisk strides towards the fake fireplace, fumbling with some buttons.
I hated that laugh. Always did. It chilled my blood more than the weather did. He’s thrown out most of his stuff, probably, except for that dumb plastic Christmas tree from the winter of 2020, still blinking the same LED lights. The rest of the apartment regained an unwelcoming blaze of pristine white, with nothing colorful except for a crazy white blue red striped jumper Paris had hidden under his overcoat all this time.
“What is this abomination you’re wearing, the flag of Russia?”
“Ha ha,” he mocked. “The heater is on now. Come sit, it’s warm here.”
Paris had the old, 1960’s fireplace replaced with a fake digital screen, displaying cozy flames dancing on crackling embers.
“No way.”
My tentative fingers ran over the vents of the fake fireplace, which were spitting hot air.
Hot air.
Oh, my, god. It was as if golden nectar was spilling onto my palm.
“What’dya think?” He leaned on the mantle.
I was as startled as the cavemen who had just discovered fire.
“It’s warm.”
“No sh–” he made a giant wheezing sound and fumbled for tissue in his pocket.
He took his time blowing his nose. He was embarrassed by it, the way he subtly tried to wipe the mucus off onto his denim jeans. Disgusting. I chose to stare at the Christmas tree instead.
“Why’s this still up?”
“It’s December 24th, you dummy! Christmas Eve!”
At this, he threw his hands above his head and did a little spin. I felt the corners of my mouth tug, and I willed myself to smile.
He sing-songed his way to the kitchen table and back.
“You’ve got anything to eat? I can do with some food.” My mind toyed with the idea of a warm plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
“I’ll check.” He turned, and I followed him to the fridge.
He pulled the door open, and an orange fell out of the open compartment.
I cast a second glance at the fridge.
Three shelves full of oranges.
“Have you always had this– this orange business going on?”
“Nah, I just started fancying them recently. Want one? They’re good. Imported from Malaysia.” He began to peel two oranges onto a plate.
God, Malaysia. Warm and tropical. A place of sunshine.
I tentatively picked up a slice and popped it into my mouth.
For a split second, it felt as if someone was electrocuting my teeth and performing surgery on my gums at the same time, as a searing shock had me clutch my jaw in pain.
Heck, how were oranges this cold?
I was chattering uncontrollably; the orange juice dripped out the side of my agape mouth, yet I had no power to close it. It was giving me a headache.
“Oh yeah, they do that to you,” Paris said as he chewed on an entire orange all at once. “Brrrr. Brain freeze.” He laughed that irksome laugh again.
Like a microwave pizza, my blood heated. A sudden surge of fury forced my mouth to clamp shut.
I wanted to hurt, wanted to inflict all my fury onto Paris, wanted to make him cry, afraid, angry, anything. To punch that perpetual smirk off his face, him and his unchanging innocence, staring at me so blissfully ignorant.
My hands balled into fists. His inherent niceness. How he’s oblivious to anything outside of his golden little bubble of life because he never feels bad about anything.
Goddamit, stop offering me tissue.
I don’t want anything from him. Because he never, never seems to be anything else other than uncaring. Because he’s always okay with it. Always moving on from one trouble to the next, forgetting pain as fast as a goldfish.
“You okay?” He makes it sound so genuine every time. And I fall for it, always.
God. I wanted to punch him so bad. Wanted to put it square on his nose. Wanted to make him bleed.
Instead, I took the tissue and wiped the juice off my chin. The saccharine scent of orange lingered on my lips.
My guts were clenching again, this time because of the fiery hate brewing inside me. Wanted to slap Paris’s reaching hand away.
Instead, I let him hold me.
“Hey. I don’t know what it is, but if it was me, I’m sorry.” That tone again. Soft, sorrowful, sounded fragile and forgiving. Genuine.
I glared at him.
“I mean it. I’m really sorry. For that thing. For everything.”
Paris probably saw my face soften, because he had the nerve to laugh.
And, against all odds, I smiled back at him. I wouldn’t forgive him entirely, and he knew. But I smiled, and that was enough to steer everything back into equilibrium for the moment.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cold, still?”
We sat back down in front of the digital embers. I hovered my hand over the grates, expecting that warm gush of bliss to fill my body again.
No hot air met my fingers this time. The heater probably just broke. Wonderful.
“Oh shoot,” he said, “it’s the monthly subscription to the heating function.”
That’s a thing now?
He stood up and was finding his phone to pay the bill when —
“Don’t.”
What did I just say?
“It’s fine. I like the cold for a while.”
Why is my mouth spitting such insanity?
He was dead in his footsteps, probably thinking of what to say to a madwoman. And so he finally sat down beside me, us staring at a heatless screen of slithering red.
I wasn’t freezing anymore. My blood had boiled, and I was running on the lingering warmth it provided. The cold only did to dull my senses, and it bit, but didn’t sting. The waters were calm, and serendipity enveloped me like a blanket.
It was nice, dead, cold, and nice, dead, silence.
And silence meant one thing.
“Don’t tell me there was also a separate bill for the sound effects.”
“Damn it…”
We were left there in the cold, two crazy beings huddled side by side, relishing the attacking temperature.
“It’s capitalism,” I offered.
“Capitalism,” he agreed.
Writer – Cynthia Zheng
Editor – Angela Wei
Artist – Khemjira Phutirat
–August 2026–
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