Written by Bobartles
N.B. The title refers to the writer’s core body temperature at the time of writing.
“You’re cold,” she says.
I shift my hands in my pockets as she appears at my side, not taking my eyes off the shifting lights of the motorway beneath us. She crosses her arms and leans back on the railing. I feel her eyes on me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She keeps staring at me, brown-blonde hair catching the feeble rays from above and shining as bright as the headlamps far below. I don’t meet her gaze.
“No,” she murmurs after a moment. “You’re not. You’re really not.”
I don’t reply.
“Are you going to the funeral?” she asks quietly.
“Maybe.” The words haven’t even registered. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice starts screaming something. I ignore it.
“That’s it?” She’s staring at me even harder now. I avoid looking at her face, but I can imagine the look of shock.
Silence, besides the rumbling below. She turns away. Continue reading →