Fire in the Snow

"We're very different, you and I," Risha murmured.

"You got that right, lady. I'd never stoop so low as to do a sneak attack in a snowball fight."

Risha laughed softly, snuggling in closer. "So, you still can't let that one go, big man?"

"Don't worry, lady, I'll get my revenge, even if it takes years. I'm a patient man," Martin quipped, resting his chin on her shoulder. Risha laughed quietly.

"Besides," he said more slowly, "you've already helped me let go. More than I ever imagined...."

Risha could still feel subtle soreness inside her; the little echoes of Martin's manhood slamming into her. The afterglow of her climax was fading. She pressed herself against Martin's hips, feeling the half-hard bulge between his legs.

"I believe in you, Martin," she whispered. "You've gone down a wrong path, but there's real good inside you. It's not too late to change."

"You've already changed me, Risha. More than you can know." Martin stroked his fingers lightly down her hip.

"We'll see. I seem to mess up everything I try to heal in this world." Risha curled up tighter. She watched the candlelight make vague patterns on her shining legs.

"I've seen you, Risha. Not just the outside, the real you," Martin pulled her close again, squeezing her tighter. "You are... beyond words, Risha."

Risha opened her mouth to make a bitter reply, but in that moment, in Martin's arms, she sensed it. That feeling beyond description. Through Martin's eyes, she saw herself---luminous, powerful, beautiful--surging with a presence both in and beyond normal reality. She saw the healing in her eyes. She felt the molten heat pouring from his chest. She felt his overwhelming desire to fill her up from the inside.

"Is that really how you see me?" Risha marveled. She felt Martin's bulge growing hard behind her.

Martin paused for a long time. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Risha turned and looked at him over her shoulder. "Then show me without words."

Looking into Martin's eyes, she saw a fire so bright she was afraid it would consume her whole.

Trembling, Risha turned away, closing her eyes. She ground herself into his manhood, running it up and down between her cheeks. It grew rock hard to meet her.

Martin's hands stroked up and down her leg on one side, grasping around to hold her breast on the other. His fingernails scraped along her firm nipple. Kisses worked their way up and down her neck. His teeth found the lobe of her ear. Risha sighed and curved herself back and forth against Martin's sculpted body.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are, Risha," Martin growled in her ear. "You have no idea how much I want you."

Risha moaned as his hand slipped between the folds of her pussy. His finger plunged in while his palm rubbed back and forth on her clit. She pumped her hips back and forth, sliding his cock across her increasingly wet opening. His hand pulled back one leg. Two fingers spread open her lips.

Martin's shaft slid in without resistance. They fit together as if they were handmade for each other.

Risha watched candle light dance around the room as Martin slowly vibrated his whole length back and forth inside her. His finger played music on her clit, responding to each subtle movement of her body. Pleasure and contentment rolled over her in waves.

"You know me so well, Martin," Risha murmured.

"You deserve every bit of it," Martin replied.

"I still have to leave you," she whispered. His strokes inside her stayed steady.

"You can still have me tonight," Martin rumbled in her ear.

Risha twisted her body and kissed him. Their lips took their time. Their bodies swayed together, finding their rhythm. Their breathing became heavier together.

The snow outside the window drifted down at the slow speed willed by the sky.

Martin shifted around to lay on top of her without leaving her body. Risha ran her hands down his chest. Brown fingers on white skin. She opened her legs wide for him. Slow, deep strokes filled and emptied her. Each full penetration brought a breath of air out of her mouth.

Their breathing merged together with the lovemaking. In and out. Inhalation and exhalation.

Risha fell into her meditation. Darkness flowing in, light flowing out. Intimacy flowing in, passion flowing out. She felt every movement of her body together with Martin. She felt her heart beating in her fingertips.

The dance of the candles merged with the dance of the snow. They swayed together with the movement of their bodies.

Diamond clarity settled into Risha's core. All sensation, feeling, and emotion became one. She reached out and felt the movement of Martin's heart under his skin. She looked into his eyes and saw herself reflected back. She was a normal girl from Detroit. She was a goddess of light. All these truths swirled together into a single beat-- the beat of their breaths, their bodies, and the swirling, wordless substance of the world.

"Do you see it now?" Martin asked, his breath coming heavily.

"I see it, Martin. It really is extraordinary." Risha smiled with pure joy.

"I want to fill you completely."

Risha cupped his chin in her hands, her silver fingernails on his cheeks. "Come for me, Martin."

The thrusts came faster now, more insistently. Martin ground himself against her clit. Risha felt the pressure growing inside her. He leaned on top of her, crushing his mouth onto her lips as he pumped faster and faster. Risha panted into his mouth, stroking her hands against his broad back.

Risha remembered how Martin had covered her from waist to chin with his cum. There, too, was the image of snowflakes melting on those steaming lines of white. The thought of Martin's hot seed flowing into her womb made her ache. She moaned louder, and began clenching her pussy tightly with each thrust, urging him onward. Pressure kept building on her clit.

Martin was grunting heavily into her ear. She ran her fingers through his hair, gently guiding him upwards. She gazed into his eyes and saw his total desire and devotion. It flowed into her. She drank it in, letting it fill her thirsty heart.

An animal growl burst out of Martin. His eyes remained open, but his face contorted with wild emotion. He slammed himself into her with a final guttural roar.

Risha gasped at the feel of liquid warmth flowing inside her. She clenched her pussy wildly to welcome it in. Martin groaned and ground himself against her clit. Even more of his warmth pumped into her.

The pressure inside of her burst, crashing down with electric energy. Her pussy contracted uncontrollably, bringing another gasp out of her. Martin throbbed again and again, feeding into her contractions, until she feared they would never stop. Her whole body began clenching together with it. Her fingers dug into Martin's back. Risha cried out, shaking with the force overtaking her. Her cries mixed with his animal moans.

Martin collapsed on top of her, panting heavily. Risha lay shaking, trying to stop the trembling that kept shocking through her. The candles flickered a silent tune. The snowflakes made harmony.

Risha lay there, feeling Martin's heart pounding on her breast. She wished this moment could last forever. But she knew that morning had to come. The thought of a sunrise filled her with dread.

As Risha ran her fingers through Martin's hair, tears came unbidden to her eyes. She had never felt so known and loved. And soon--all too soon--she would have to leave all this behind.

All too soon, she would be walking on cold-covered streets, all alone on Valentine's Day.

CHAPTER X: HOW THE JOURNEY ENDS

~~~~~~~~~~~

February 14th, 2019.

Persephone Heights Apartments, Suite 1402

Washington, D.C.

7:05 a.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin stirred in the twisted sheets. He shielded his eyes from the light drifting in through the windows. Blue skies peered down on a city covered in thick white blankets.

He turned over and found the smooth brown body of Risha gone. He felt the warmth of the empty space.

Many times, he had woken up during the night, fearing she had left. He had reached out and found the comforting heat of her skin.

Once, he had woken to Risha urgently sucking his cock into her mouth. She had ridden him wildly to a screaming orgasm. He had thrown her down and taken her until he filled her again with his cum. Twice more they had made love in the sheets until their muscles cramped with the effort.

Martin had willed himself to stay awake until dawn, but the overwhelming experiences of the last few hours were too much, and he succumbed to sleep.

Throwing off the sheets, Martin searched each room. The dryer was empty. Her towel was in the washing machine. Martin could still smell her scent on it. A barely visible smear streaked the window panes. Snow lay quietly outside under clear heavens.

He truly had lost her.

A wave of despair punched Martin in the gut. Secretly, he had hoped he could pour out so much passion and love that she would be too helpless to leave him. He had failed.

Two shots of scotch later, Martin realized he still needed to face Charles Wilson. He reached for his phone, remembered throwing it into the blizzard, and cursed.

Martin booted his computer and went to brew a cup of black coffee. Then he noticed the note taped to his refrigerator.

Martin's heart leapt with hope.

Snatching the ragged piece of paper, Martin sat down on a stool of his minibar and scanned the hurriedly-scribbled text:

We started together

You have to finish the journey

I'll find you there

20222131935

Only when youre ready

The last three lines were even more hastily hand-written, but they were legible. Relief surged. Risha had left her number!

Martin almost danced with elation. She had not shut him out entirely! He had a chance to get his shit together, and he was going to take it. If that's what it took to be with her, he would do it.

He reached for his nonexistent phone, grunted in frustration, and strode over to his computer. He ignored a series of increasingly angry email notifications from Wilson, and quickly typed in a reverse phone number lookup.

His heart sank. There were one too many digits on Risha's note for a D.C. phone number.

The next hour and half was spent systematically researching and computer-calling every possible combination within the (202) area code. His only reward was a series of voicemails, angry rants from sleepy housewives, and a friendly old man who understood approximately half of Martin's attempts at speaking Spanish.

Icy crystals began to form again in his chest. Either by mistake or by design, she truly was gone for good.

He had hoped that the healing she brought would make his life better. But with her gone, it was worse. Now, his heart had been broken open. For once, he had felt what it was like to be truly alive. And now...

Looking around, Martin felt all the pain, but saw none of the hope. Every door for him opened into darkness. Without her, the pain of trying to live was unbearable.

He longed to fill his hand with the familiar weight of the SIG pistol.

Jamal sat down beside him and put a comforting arm around his shoulder. Martin looked into his bloody face without fear.

For long minutes, Martin sat with Jamal, staring together out at the crisp blue skies. Then Martin turned to his computer and called Charles Wilson.

~~~~~~~~~~~

July 19th, 2019.

Persephone Heights Apartments, Suite 1402

Washington, D.C.

7:35 p.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin sat on his couch and downed the second shot of Johnnie Walker Blue. Sweat dripped down his collar. Humid air blew through the cracked window. He could have turned on the AC, but he wanted to feel the heat. It helped to ease the ice-cold emptiness beneath his skin.

It had been a stroke of genius, really. In an epic example of D.C. deal-making, narrative-twisting, and back-stabbing, Martin had engineered Charles Wilson to take the fall for the failed contract. Wilson was the supervisor, after all; it was easy enough to pin the blame on the fat bastard. No one liked him anyway. He didn't know how to play the game.

A month later Wilson was gone, and Martin moved into his office.

For three months, Martin had tried every possible phone number remotely similar to the one on Risha's paper. He racked his brains trying to remember the address of her apartment, but she had used her own phone to call the ride share, and had been too distracted by Risha's mood to glance at the driver's map in the Uber Black. Whenever he had a free moment from the press of work (which was rare) he wandered the neighborhood around the ice cream shop, glancing at the faces of every brown-skinned woman on the street.

For the first few weeks, the pain in his heart was indescribable. He had tasted heaven, and now the petty fights and concerns of this world were ashes on his tongue. Letting go of his grief had opened up a hole, and all the violence, cruelty, and indifference of his daily life rushed in to fill it. With his heart unnumbed, he felt every stab of darkness like a knife. He breathed in the darkness, but had no idea how to breath it out.

He had thrown himself back into work. Things were different now. No more yelling. No more unprofessionalism. Only clear, rational focus on success. He restructured the department, cut the excess fat, and went in for the kill.

Slowly, the comforting numbness had crept back in. The world was absurd. Everything he loved could be taken away in a second. Friends. Lovers. Sanity. Life was short, and life was cruel, and if he had to be here, he was going to play to win.

Just yesterday, he had put ink on a $3.52 billion contract. The end-user was the dictator of a medium-sized country, but no one else needed to know that. Martin had met the man himself, shook his hand, and assured him that it was no one's business how he used the weapons. The DOD was on board. The State Department said it was realpolitik, but a necessary trade-off for anti-terrorism guarantees. The legality was spotless. Professional. The only people who lost were the dissidents who would have their children's bodies blown to bits as collateral damage if they tried to act up.

Martin took the third shot. Jamal sat beside him and shook his head. The fragments of skin hanging down Jamal's left cheek flapped raggedly.

The visions had not come back, but for the last five months, Jamal never left. He always hovered out of the corner of Martin's eye. Lounging in the corner of his office, dripping blood on the hardwood floors. Staring at him as he slept, his blasted eye socket shifting wetly. He even walked quietly behind Martin as he roamed the streets of D.C., searching for Risha.

Martin reached past the row of empty shot glasses. Next in line was the gray and black shape of the SIG Sauer 226 pistol.

A blast of air like an open oven blew through the window. The local NBC News channel predicted it would be over 110 degrees today. Martin searched for some kind of warmth inside him. There was nothing. Smooth ice stretched as far as his eye could see.

Martin picked up the gun and placed it on his left cheek. Just like he had every day for the last week, he carefully aimed it towards the back of his head. He would only have one shot. It was important to precisely angle the trajectory to sever the brainstem with a single bullet.

His finger rested lightly on the trigger.

Jamal grinned.

Martin looked down at the last item in line on the table. It was Risha's note.

"Sorry, pretty lady," Martin murmured down at the paper, "but I couldn't finish this trip on my own."

The heat pressed down on him. The sky was as hard as bronze.

Martin waited for a vision. He waited for Risha to knock on his door. He waited for someone from up above to come down and tell him what to do.

But no one came. He had to do this alone. Martin began to tense the muscles of his finger on the trigger. The ice inside felt nothing.

For no reason that he could explain, Martin lowered the gun and turned towards Jamal.

"You died happy, didn't you?" Martin asked.

Jamal's broken teeth and bloody face grinned back at him.

"You lived a good life. You found love. Did some good. Followed what you believed in. We even had some laughs along the way, didn't we?"

Jamal kept on with his half-skeletal smile.

"I wish I had more time with you. I keep telling myself it should have been me. It should have been me who died, instead of you. Well, maybe I should try to be more like you, instead. I could try to do some good. Chase down love. Have some fun, just like a kid, now and then."

Martin smiled to himself. "Hell, did you know that not long ago I played hooky from my job so I could go roll around in the snow with a pretty girl? She had the most beautiful smile."

Jamal threw back his bloody head and laughed--a donkey's bray of a laugh, slapping his hand on his leg.

Martin laughed along with him. He laughed at the craziness of it all--talking with a dead man, shooting someone else's child in a desert, making love to a woman whose eyes glowed like a goddess, even writing poems he saw fall from the sky. He laughed at the heat of summer, the cold of snow pyramids, the flavor of pistachio kulfi ice cream, and the way Risha's face lit up when she smiled.

He laughed until his belly hurt, and then the tears came. Clean, clear tears that landed on the ice inside his chest and turned it into a pure, cool stream. It flowed out of him and down his cheeks, washing away the pain like a spring rain.

When he looked up, Jamal was gone.

Martin felt the weight of the SIG in his hand. With quick, practiced motions, he emptied the ammunition. Within minutes he had disassembled the gun. He took the striker spring and threw it down the garbage chute in the hallway. The rest of the parts and ammunition he wrapped in plastic and placed in a canvas carry-bag by the front door.

Pulling out his new phone, he called the number for his local precinct, and scheduled a time for an anonymous drop-off of a firearm. The next number he called was a support group for returning veterans, and scheduled a time to talk with a counselor. He had kept it in his contacts for years, and never bothered to make the time. He finished making the appointment and then immediately dialed his work, informing them that he would be on a leave of absence for the next two weeks, at least. He hung up on the incredulous voice on the other end that demanded an explanation.

Martin sat and watched the clear blue sky and thought of Risha. A pure, diamond conviction began to grow in his chest.

He might never see her again. He had to accept that fact. But there was one thing he could still do for her. He could become the kind of man that she would be proud of. He could finish the work she started.

Before he died, Martin wanted to be the kind of man that would make Risha smile.

As he pulled out his yearly planner and began to write, Martin saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something white drifted through the open window. It blew through the hot summer air and circled lazily until it landed on the open page of Martin's planner. It melted into the ink and paper, leaving a blurred smudge on the date.

A second white flake floated down and landed on the scribbled numbers on Risha's note.

Martin looked at the date on his planner, and then the numbers on the note. He slapped his hand to his forehead, threw back his chin, and laughed.

Risha had been clever. A little too clever. He supposed he did not blame her. It must have torn her apart to leave him, and she had written the note in haste. To think, it might have saved him months of torment if her thoughts had been a little clearer, or her handwriting a little neater.