Winter in Fairfax
by Benjamin Chadwick

Without warning, the December recess had become a threat instead of a promise. There had been a strange energy to Emily's late-night study sessions in the university library; after gliding through her exams, she felt listless, pointless, even hung over. She waved goodbye, packed up the hatchback, and drove in silence toward home. Gray skiesÐ dead treesÐ cretinous suburbia. Northern Virginia.

The bright brake lights on the car before her stabbed her eyes with stuttered flashes.

This is not depression: I do not get depressed.

But what would there be at home? Frenzied shopping, leftover dinners, smart conversations soured by petty remarks, a morning of gifts for last year's self. Maybe a snowstorm. The roads would turn that horrid prison color from the salt and grime, and everything would be leafless, twisted, black... Or red from taillights. A morbid wasteland of sprawling strip mall parking lots. Perpetual traffic and nowhere to go. Oh, love might lurk, reading Kundera, a man in black in the corner of a Georgetown coffeehouse...

Forget it.

It's cold out.

I'm totally broke.

I've got coffee at home.

Wind whistled through some unseen crack and chilled her calves. In the rear-view mirror, she practiced smiling.

For a friend from high school, she could justify coffee.

Nordstrom's CafŽ, an oasis within the chaotic department store. Booth seating on turquoise vinyl. She and James had waited in line for entryÐ fifteen frustrated minutesÐ but he paid, there was room to breathe, the coffee was strong, and refills were free. Nowhere to go: an almost restful feeling.

A middle-aged mother passed by, overdressed in a crimson coat, struggling with store-wrapped gifts in human-sized sacks. Emily watched the woman collapse, cursing, at a corner table.

James, behind a satisfied grin, appeared to be inspecting Emily for leaks. He'd gained style, confidence. He looked directly at her when speaking. This made her feel exposed. Her pinky made spirals of spilled sugar on the table.

"Fine, I admit it," she said, eventually. "I'm depressed. But look at them allÉ"

"Look at them all, through the darkness I'm bringing..."

"Please, no. James."

"They're not sad at all! They're actually singing!"

Emily looked up, her eyes moist, and whispered, "leave me alone."

"You really do sound like the Grinch. What do you expect? Not everybody goes miserable at Christmas." He paused, frowned. "You can't expect everyone to just stop and rub your back and cry with you. Be strong."

"But why do they look happy? How can shopping be fun?"

"You tell me, you're the girl." He winked and sipped his coffee.

"You can barely move in this... mall. There's too many people and they're all here. Everyone's all dressed up, shouting and struggling... It's just wrong. Why can't they end the charade and rip out each other's throats?" She choked back her urge to cry and forced a laugh.

"C'mon, Em. This isn't really about shopping, is it? I mean, why do you care so much?"

She opened her mouth and inhaled, tremolo, sniffling. Down came thin, fast-running tears. Within seconds her face felt slick and puffy. James glanced around at the other customers while he dabbed her cheeks with his coffee napkin; Emily snatched it and hid her face in her arms.

"Is it really worth getting this worked up over? Christmas will be over soon, and then, you know, then the malls will empty up, the radio'll play real music, and it'll warm up."

"And the roads?" she sniffed, her voice muted against the table.

"The roads'll clear, Em."

He gripped her hands tightly, ignoring the clammy slime of her tears. This made her feel grateful, and thus pathetic. She looked up. "I don't want to be pitied."

James shrugged in helpless confusion, then rose, wiped his hands on his jeans, and took their takeaway cups for refills. When he returned he helped her with her coat, and they left.

He started his car and forced it into the gridlock. They sat there, frustrated and silent, behind thousands of other cars, the windows hopelessly fogged. There wasn't anything to say; she leaned against her door. Her feet were sweating. Drivers honked their horns, muffled. She pretended to sleep, hypnotized by the whirr of the heater. She brushed back her hair and felt the window against her cheek, moist and icy. She didn't feel like moving. She knew he was looking at her. His hand brushed her exposed neck, stroking with his knuckles and then his palm, his fingers cold but not unwelcome. She sighed. He pulled, tilted her across the center of the car and she felt his lips, soft and warm, and wet, and pleasant. She smiled on the outside as she pulled away, eyes still closed. The lonely feeling persisted even now. She fought off another round of tears, which would have only confused him, and left the smile, painted poorly on her face.



There was no world outside the bathtub. Her fingers left wet crinkles on the corners of her sister's Seventeen. Once, a stronger Emily had proudly cast away these pages, eager to face the world as an adult and not as a cosmetic doll. Now she retreated into blush and miniskirts, only occasionally grimacing at the models.

But I am strong.

She sipped her leftover coffee, hours old and tepid, from a twenty-ounce cardboard cup.

The only cure for a season is time. James is right. Winter fades. The air warms. The roads clear. The sun pokes its spikes out, and by April, it's serious.

Meanwhile, what can she do? Paint the smile on her face again and maybe it'll stick. Sticking as shoppers fistfight for the last available toy. Sticking when her sister gets skirts, scarves, and mascara and she gets stationery. Sticking when James proves just like the rest. Paint that smile. Get used to it. Turn out like them.

She shivered and caused a wave. Water splashed across the bathroom floor. This made her smile.