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Light flooded in the window, splaying across the bed and making each dust particle floating in the air visible. A cloud moved, and the sun lay across your face, rousing you from sleep. You roll over and pat the bed next to you, finding the place where your lover sleeps empty. You pout and sit up, stretching. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and look out the window, the white snow blinding you. Kids sled down the riverbank, getting caught by their parents before they go too far and slide across the frozen water. You get up and pick Meursault’s sleep shirt out of the hamper, slipping it on, bringing your arm up to smell the sleeve. His scent still lingers on it, sweet and unexplainable. The shirt is much too big for you, but comforting nonetheless. You roll up the sleeve and the smell of eggs and toast wafts down the hall, luring you out of bed and to the kitchen.
Meursault is usually off at work at this point, but you had successfully convinced him to take the day off the night before. Maybe you could convince him to go out with you in the snow, too.
“Good morning,” you yawned as you walked into the kitchen, standing next to Meursault and wrapping your arms around his.
“Morning. How would you like your eggs?”
“Over easy, please,” you hum, holding his arm tight.
He moves around precisely, cracking two eggs into the pan. They sizzle and bubble, the whites becoming opaque. Meursault holds the pan’s handle in one hand and a spatula in the other, watching the eggs and counting under his breath. He soon flips them both over, letting them sit in the pan for a few more seconds. He cuts the heat and takes the pan—and you—over to a plate with two slices of toast on it, both of them cut into triangles. He puts the pan and spatula in the sink, hands you the plate, then grabs his own. You follow behind him to the already set kitchen table, a cup of coffee with milk set out for him and a cup of tea for you as well. You both sit down, and he takes the napkin from under his silverware and lays it across his lap. Meursault usually reads the newspaper while he eats, but today it’s missing from the table. Instead, he looks out the window, uneating and squinting as the snow beams the sunlight back into his eyes.
“Meur?” You swallow your food and tilt your head as you look at him, a bit worried.
“Yes, dear?” he looks back at you, his eyes lingering on the window.
“You feeling okay?” you ask carefully, unsure of what’s on his mind.
“Yes,” he nods, looking down at his plate and begging to eat.
He gets like this sometimes. Contemplative. Sometimes he’s thinking about his mother, most of the time he’s thinking about his time at Limbus Company. He doesn’t tell you, but it’s obvious to you that he misses his coworkers. Misses the time he spent with them. A few of them call him sometimes, two of them visit once in a blue moon, a man who makes the living room smell like cigarettes, and a woman who tracks dirt into the house. For whatever reason, Meursault hasn’t let you meet them, asking you to go to a friend’s house whenever they come over. Given how infrequently they visit, you don’t mind. You know he’s friendly with people at his current job, but the only real friend that he spends a lot of time with nowadays is you.
“You should call them,” you take a sip of tea.
He shakes his head. “No, today’s about you.”
You smile to yourself, butterflies in your stomach. You eat in comfortable silence for the rest of your meal. Meursault takes his and your plate to the sink once you’ve finished, rinsing them off and putting them in the dishwasher.
“We should go for a walk in the snow, watch the kids sledding,” you suggest, bringing the mugs to the sink as well.
“Too cold out,” he replies simply, putting the mugs in the dishwasher as well. You would be doing the dishes, but every time you offer, he insists on doing it. He’s very particular about the way things in the house are arranged. It was practically a fight to let you be the one who mops the floors.
“I got you that coat for Christmas, and you just got new gloves from that girl you worked with,” you place a hand on his arm as he washes the pan.
A package addressed to a “Young Meursault” had arrived a few weeks ago. You could barely read the return address before Meursault took it from you, retreating to the bedroom to open it. You found out what it was later that week, finding a pair of blue wool gloves in his sock drawer while putting away the laundry (which you had done behind his back).
He pauses for a second, still looking down at the pan. “Don Quixote.”
“Don Quixote?” You tilt your head, confused.
“That’s her name. She sent me the package,” he rinses off the pan. “She’s also the woman who visits sometimes.”
You nod, surprised he told you. Meursault’s very secretive about that part of his past, keeping it from you for as long as you’ve known him. All you know is the name of the company he worked for, nothing about what he did there, or who his coworkers were, and what they were like. You only knew about the existence of the afore-mentioned man and woman, one of them you now had a name for.
“A walk would be nice,” he says, putting the pan on the drying rack and turning to you, his eyes shining.
You smile and nod, walking back to the bedroom with him to get dressed.
The two of you emerge soon after, sufficiently bundled up to go outside. Meursault is wearing the coat you got him and the gloves Don Quixote sent him, as well as a scarf you haven’t seen before. You decide not to ask him, seemingly a lot still on his mind. You loop your arm around his and leave your home.
The cold air sends blood rushing to your cheeks as soon as you step outside. Meursault pulls your arm closer, leading you to the sidewalk. You make your way down the street, looping around the block to walk along the river. Children’s laughter fills the air, older kids helping their younger siblings build snowmen and sitting on the back of sleds so there’s enough weight to send it down the hill. Teenagers run around at the bottom of the hill, throwing snowballs at each other, and lovers of all ages fall back into the snow and make snow angels together.
“Make a snow angel with me?” You hold onto his arm tightly, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
“That’s a bit frivolous, no?” Meursault looks down at you, the soft part of him hidden away again.
You pout and look in front of you. You walk for a bit more before letting go of his arm and attempting to push him into the snow, completely disregarding how much bigger than you he is. After a few pushes, he gives in and falls back into the snow next to the sidewalk, but not before grabbing your arm and taking you down with him. You fall on top of him and start to laugh. He kisses you. You take the opportunity to grab a handful of snow, shoving it in his face as soon as he pulls away. He scrunches his face and shakes off the snow. Meursault gently pushes you off of him, spreading his arms and legs out in the snow. You smile and follow his lead, butterflies in your stomach again. He stands up after a few strokes, reaching his hand out to help you up. The force with which he pulls you up makes you stand and stumble into his arms. You giggle as he picks you up and spins you around back onto the sidewalk. He presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips cold against your skin. You bury your face in his chest, holding him tightly.
“Let’s go home,” he whispers to you, rubbing your back.
“I got hot cocoa the other day!” you gasp, remembering the fancy display at the grocery store that lured you into buying some kind of gourmet cocoa.
He smiles, a rare sight. “Perfect.”