Let's play head injury or sleep deprivation? (I'll go first.)

I got flowers. I got a good arch to my back and I screamed into the hand covering my mouth and Lochlan said afterward that he was just getting started. I smiled and I didn't see the upright side of the world until the sun came up and then we made coffee and everyone sort of appeared and Caleb said something awful and Lochlan threw a good punch that PJ blocked but only the second half (with his face) and now it's all just a typical Friday.

I went outside to finish clearing the driveway (since even the smallest of the giants who live here has to do her part) and slipped on the ice and whacked my head on the side of Ben's truck. Might have cried for a moment, sitting there in a puddle and then finished the shovelling, soaking wet, all the while plotting a move to Fiji, or at least somewhere where snow and bears aren't a threat.

I don't think that's a good plan though. I hate the heat, and I hate bugs. I don't like tsunamis or typhoons or tourists either.

What do I like?

The heated part of the driveway, for one, and the fact that I finally found a cheap side of Caleb in that when they extended the driveway they only put heating in the new parts and not in the original part. So half the driveway is ice, the other half is bare brick and concrete.

The moment he finds out that I wiped out and smashed my head again he'll have the whole thing torn up and replaced with a horizontal volcano and I will never have to worry about ice again. And he'll expect credit for playing the hero when he's done nothing of the kind. The real hero to today's story kept me up all night and while I'm not complaining, I'm really, really cranky now. 

Death gospel valentines.

Hear me out
Hear me out

And I long for a day like this again
When I’ll never lose control

And some days I feel like the saddest, smallest evil overlord king, my oversized, beautiful subjects doing my bidding, bringing me small sacrifices they think will please me, and then once they've won my favour they take a deep shuddering breath, knowing that for the moment, they are safe.

Safe.

(I don't know what that is.)

(Shhhhh. Leave her be. Leave her mine.)

Duncan did that this morning, sleepily handing me my headphones, digging through his music, finding something I hadn't heard before. He ran his warm hand down my back, pulling the blankets back up over me as I drifted off to sleep on a droning, intoning guitar sound that reminded me that I might need a new crown. Maybe silver instead of gold this time. I think silver might be harder, and I've eroded this one down to a halo, points worn to blunted dunes over a empty sea.

(The song was A.A. Williams, Control. What a masterpiece.)

Just over here continuing to break my (former) psychoanalyst.

Breathe out so I can breathe you in
Hold you in

The angel wings tattooed on my back couldn't save me from Joel's scrutiny, much as they should have served as absolution from his own warped brand of judgement.

You seem happier lately. 

I frown at him. Practicing gratitude. 

This one of Sam's programs? 

Jake's. It's a warning that he sails right over, leapfrogging into his agenda, a man with a mission. I'm still not even sure what his mission is, to be honest, though I believe he's been tasked with mapping my heart, soul and mind. Good luck, Joel. It's going to take you the rest of your life. Or maybe longer. Your descendants will probably have to take up your life's work and continue on with-

Bridget. 

Yes??

Where did you go just now? 

I was just thinking that every time you show up and start flinging doors open in my head all the ghosts and the drafts and the dark come in and then I can't clear it all out by myself. 

Your visuals make me weep. 

I've heard that before but it doesn't change things. 

I just want to be on the front side of any landslides in the future. I want to make sure things are well and that most of all you are happy. 

I'd be happier if you weren't here trying to gauge the value of that happiness. 

Does he-

Not even within your limits, Joel. The topic is me. Not my relationships. 

Is this a New Year's Res-

No, it's a boundary and you can't cross it. 

What if I need to? In an emergency. 

There won't be any. 

He waits a few heartbeats, assessing his next move. Our conversations are chess games, world wars, a simple duel waged without armor.

Will you call if you need me? 

Someone will. 

I just-

I wait and say nothing. He's having a strange time trying to be composed, indifferent and yet caring too.

I want you to be well. 

Trying my best. 

I think going back to work has helped. 

Great. Yes, I'm too tired to be insane. 

No, I think it gave you a different narrative to take up some space. Maybe quiet the ghosts. 

Or I'm the greatest actress that ever was. 

That's what scares me right now, Bridget. And I'm not easily frightened.

Noble warming.

I begged for mercy and won ruthlessness, there in the dark, in the quiet snowfall that coated the point with an eerie unnatural light. I asked for leniency and won strictness, there in the light, in the quiet snowfall that coated the day, too. A day conducted in an eerie unnatural light that saw a sea-change in the morning tides, a literal shift floating on the waves in which a devil learns to be an angel again, of sorts, and one in which an angel is a little devilish sometimes too.

Don't get up, Neamhchiontach. It's a snow-day. Everything is mostly closed. Universities. High Schools. Stores and restaurants too. Mine's not. My restaurant was open.

Of course.

I have to go.

I put on my new shearling sweater and went in. Lochlan drove me in the Jeep. We didn't talk much, enjoying the snow, the quiet roads, the sleepy-Tuesdayness of life. He held my hand when he wasn't in 4-hi and we made it to my job in record time.

Maybe they'll let you go early? He squints through the windshield at the sky, obscured by snowclouds and huge flakes falling fast and heavily now.

Maybe. I get a hard kiss on the lips and he pulls away from the door.

I pour coffee and serve plates all day, automatically, remiss if I was to say I didn't focus one bit on my job. I was too busy thinking about the ruthlessness, too busy thinking about the strictness, too busy thinking about the Devil in a new place in my life and if he'll stay put there or force himself back into bad habits and while I expect the latter, I hope very fervently for the former.

A chore, a dance, a plan.

Caleb is fresh from a round of shovelling with Lochlan and they return to the kitchen, both with messy hair, ruddy cheeks and the sort of exhausted camaraderie I like best. Caleb grabs me in a tight bearhug, growling a laugh while Lochlan puts his cold hands on the back of my neck. I shriek and Caleb lets go but Lochlan does not, pulling me in tight, pushing his hands up the back of my sweater until I beg him for mercy. 

There will be no mercy here today!

Some tonight then? I smile charmingly at him as he moves his hands to the outside of my sweater again. 

He smiles but says nothing. I am spun back to Caleb who tells me if I want mercy tonight I'll have to beg for it, but he's smiling with his eyes when he says it. Was I cold? I'm not cold anymore. 

I nod, kind of surprised that their hour of shoveling resulted in such a warm exchange. 

What time? He kisses me hard on the mouth. 

Ah..

Lochlan pulls me back into his arms, answering for me. Nine. Nine-thirty. He's gazing into my eyes. I nod. 

Yeah. If that's not too late. 

You decide, Neamhchiontach. 

(I thought I did.) Nine-thirty is fine. 

Maybe the snow will get heavier. Can you imagine if the point gets snowed-in? 

I can't, actually. 

Oh, I can. Might be nice to be cut off from the world. 

(I thought we were.) True. 

Or we could have a self-imposed snow day. 

(I think I will.)

Three twists and a winch.

In a perfectly predictable twist of fate the windshield wipers on the Porsche refused to work until I got out and started them with my hand. Now they're fine.

(She goes in for service and a new battery in two weeks, and maybe now a wiper motor. All stuff in the frunk. Hang on girl, you got this.)

In yet another, we discovered this morning that when the custodian mops the sanctuary at Sam's church, he carefully closes all of the furnace vents in the floor first, so as not to get water down into the ductwork. Which explains why the church is so fucking cold every Sunday morning. Sam and Lochlan and I opened all of the vents again and it was almost toasty in there this morning. I was so delighted I didn't even fall asleep. Not even once.

In a third twist, Canada Revenue has decided to not release the 2018 tax package until this coming February 18. Which is the same day netfile goes live. Which means I can't do a thing except continue to collect paperwork for another week and don't have to do tax work today. It's a short week too, with Henry having a school inservice and Ruth only going three days a week for her university classes. It's supposed to be cold and snowy and awful out, much like it has been the past two weeks. I wish the Olympics were on but it's an odd year.

So what would you like to do this afternoon, Peanut? 

Watch King of the Hammers for offroading tips and drink hot chocolate. 

Sounds good to me.

My fingers are cold and the power is still out at every second stoplight and you're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop, assholes.

Stood outside in the freezing cold today and learned to use a rivet gun. Learned to pop out my taillights and pop out the gas cap trim. Learned how to shop for plasma cutters on sale. Learned how to drive in 4-lo again, still a little concerned about my strength and ability to jam that shift knob all the way back up.

Learned I still like Burger King fries better than the others, but fries from Five Guys are still the best of the lot. Five Guys is just really uh...too...warehousey for me. I like ambience. Burger King has way more ambience than Five Guys and it actually has almost none. But almost none is more than none at all so there you go.

I'm exceeding opinionated about things most people hardly stop to consider.

I found a shearling-lined zip-up plain hoodie that's kinda nice for work. If I'm still cold after Monday I'll let the Devil win and quit but then I'll start looking for a job in a warmer place but also not, because I broiled last summer. I'll look for something in a climate-controlled place. Like an auto supply store, as I've spent more time lately at Princess Auto and Lordco, Napa and Canadian Tire than ever before.

(And the dealership, because that's where all the really good parts come from.)

The Jeep is mostly outfitted the way I want now too, barring a good cage and roof rack and then subsequent kayaks on top. And a tent. And maybe the jeep-top hammock. Because freedom panels. I've got 'em.

Places, everything.

Oh..shit. Was bored and when I'm bored I tend to get into trouble. I watch weird things on Netflix. Usually they're too weird to even talk about but this time...well, this time I watched Tidying Up with Marie Kondo and now we're all completely and utterly...fucked. 

The boys like the show. Because we're all about self-improvement over here anyway and because half of them, or perhaps five-quarters of them (at least) are burgeoning metrosexuals as it is, they've decided we need to do that. Purge. Tidy. Organize. 

Nevermind this house is as neat as a pin. One of the funnest, most horrible parts of living in a communal family environment is that if everything doesn't have a place, there's nowhere to put something back and it will subsequently disappear. Into the void. Forever.

(For example, we have four missing ipads currently, because they don't have a place, technically speaking.)

So we're very neat, and exceedingly tidy. I think, anyway.

Ben has already folded all of his t-shirts so that they are stacked vertically on their edges and he swears he knows what he has now. I had a quick gander and noticed at least two hundred black band t-shirts in the drawer. 

You can't see the logos. 

Yeah, I know. 

I have three bags of clothing to donate and I only spent five minutes staring at my closet, wondering what brings me joy. Well, none of it does, frankly, as I don't shop for therapy, pleasure or comfort. I shop because being nude is unacceptable. 

I hate clothes. So it's easy to pick all black and pretend it fits/is comfortable/is warm enough/cold enough/appropriate enough. 

(I know. I don't think I'm an actual girl. They wouldn't act like this.) 

ACTUALLY, my Valentino dresses bring me joy but they're formal. 

So there. 

(Do I get my girl cred back? 

No? Fine.)

We've pledged to work through the weekend, since it's going to be stormy anyway, because everything and everyone has room for improvement, right? 

It is so, and it always will be to me.

Ice-cold pre-dawn finds me in a cloak made from a field of stars, tied with a kuiper belt as I watch the planets revolve around me in a never-ending loop, a static circle of bodies, in a sky as far as the eye can see.

What are you thinking? 

Nothing, actually. Just waiting for the coffee. 

Seriously, Bridge. 

Fine. Did you know that Gerry Kuiper discovered a whole whack-ton of meteors just chilling out by Neptune and once they get nudged into the circle of orbit they are actually tiny planets for a time? 

That's what you're thinking about? 

Mostly. I'm Neptune, and you guys are the tiny planets, except you're actually much bigger and I'm...Pluto, I guess. 

Except Pluto's not a plan-

WE DON'T SPEAK OF THAT.

A wolf-girl in sheeps' clothing.

I stayed home today. Can't do another cold day. Have a headache from the cold and from the time of the month that it is anyway and had to eat chocolate for breakfast just to be (somewhat) pleasant agreeable human.

Does this mean I 'won'? Caleb is up and remiss to not take the opportunity to have his coffee with me by the fire. I will burn all the wood in the whole province, but I won't be cold again. I'm also shopping for some sort of wind-cutting shearling-lined plain hoodie to wear over my work dress. Just in case it gets cold here again. The look on his face is not an amused one. He's angry.

No. It's a sick day, that's all. Because I'm sick. 

I'm glad you stayed home if it's that cold. 

I nod.

So do you think I am going to win, then? What are the odds? 

The usual. Thirty/seventy. 

Is that all? 

Yes. 

We sip our coffee in silence, me hypnotized and lulled into vacancy by the flames and him reading on his phone.

It's not a contest, Neamhchiontach. 

Everything is a contest with you. 

When you feel differently, let me know. He gets up, pockets his phone, kisses my cheek softly, takes his coffee and leaves me there to be wonder if I should just set my clothes on fire or I might never feel truly warm again.