Ain’t Gonna Stick
By the time I met him, in my thirties, my expectations were properly tempered. I knew enough not to get used to the feel of his warm arms or the sweet smell of scotch still on his breath or the peaked ceiling with the windows underneath. When he saw the morning snow falling and said, “That shit ain’t gonna stick,” he didn’t have to tell me. I was already pulling on the clothes we’d carelessly discarded and heading out to my car. It wasn’t worth waiting or even scraping the ice off, because he was right, it was already melting.
Photo Credit: Nik Stanbridge
Very memorable imagery, nice!