Radiator-- Kristen Kim
Editor's Note: Winner of Holiday Fiction Writing Contest
Going anywhere is impossible. To leave the kitchen, Clayton has to walk halfway to the door, then halfway to the door, then again and again and again forever.
Kev puts on his shoes and walks out the door, because he doesn’t give a fuck about anything, and Clayton stands and watches, trapped by paradox. That’s the way it goes.
“You forgot your coat,” says Clayton to absolutely no one.
Clayton used to watch ballet through cellophane windows of the studio on his street when he was seven and a half. He and Kev do something like that. Step together, spin apart.
He laces up his running shoes and locks his door. A step, a spin. His ankle twists when he steps off the curb.
Today is not a good day for a run. Today, Clayton trips back up the stairs and puts his key into the lock.
Kev is not a running shoes boy. Kev wears black leather combat boots with little silver studs bedazzled into the sides. He wages war with every step he takes.
Kev never danced ballet, but he did play basketball for two weeks when he was a freshman in high school. Two points, three points, no points.
Kev is a no points kind of boy.
It snows.
Clayton stands at the window and waits for it all to pass, the wind and snow and ice and cold rippling little silver studs in the black leather night. He wonders what would happen if he turned on the radiator.
He reaches out. Halfway and halfway and halfway again until it’s a millimeter away and he still can’t reach.
Clayton’s hand falls.
Kev puts on his shoes and walks out the door, leaving the NBA mutely playing on television. The curb is slippery.
He shivers, coatless. The cumulus clouds of breath prickles on his cheeks, and icicles weigh down his eyelashes.
Kev takes flight with goosebump wings and lands on a different curb, still slippery.
Step apart, spin together. The door is unlocked.
Kev opens the door and shreds apart paradox.
Clayton tilts up his chin. “You forgot your coat.”
Kev sits down on the windowsill. “It’s okay,” he says.
Clayton reaches out and turns on the radiator.
Kev puts on his shoes and walks out the door, because he doesn’t give a fuck about anything, and Clayton stands and watches, trapped by paradox. That’s the way it goes.
“You forgot your coat,” says Clayton to absolutely no one.
Clayton used to watch ballet through cellophane windows of the studio on his street when he was seven and a half. He and Kev do something like that. Step together, spin apart.
He laces up his running shoes and locks his door. A step, a spin. His ankle twists when he steps off the curb.
Today is not a good day for a run. Today, Clayton trips back up the stairs and puts his key into the lock.
Kev is not a running shoes boy. Kev wears black leather combat boots with little silver studs bedazzled into the sides. He wages war with every step he takes.
Kev never danced ballet, but he did play basketball for two weeks when he was a freshman in high school. Two points, three points, no points.
Kev is a no points kind of boy.
It snows.
Clayton stands at the window and waits for it all to pass, the wind and snow and ice and cold rippling little silver studs in the black leather night. He wonders what would happen if he turned on the radiator.
He reaches out. Halfway and halfway and halfway again until it’s a millimeter away and he still can’t reach.
Clayton’s hand falls.
Kev puts on his shoes and walks out the door, leaving the NBA mutely playing on television. The curb is slippery.
He shivers, coatless. The cumulus clouds of breath prickles on his cheeks, and icicles weigh down his eyelashes.
Kev takes flight with goosebump wings and lands on a different curb, still slippery.
Step apart, spin together. The door is unlocked.
Kev opens the door and shreds apart paradox.
Clayton tilts up his chin. “You forgot your coat.”
Kev sits down on the windowsill. “It’s okay,” he says.
Clayton reaches out and turns on the radiator.