THE FORECAST

FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG

Roy locks up early. He feels for the keys in his pocket, shuts the door behind him and walks across the empty parking lot towards the house. The snow swirls and shifts. Sideways in blizzard bursts. Drifts start to bury the backyard. 

He zips his jacket and heads to the truck and checks the doors. Admires the equipment. The new plow is ready for a long night. They're calling for 12-14 inches. It has been snowing already for a few hours. Quickly accumulating. Visibility getting worse as daylight fades. The roads are starting to get bad and he wonders a little worried about Bruce making it here okay. Then he sees his car parked by the side of the garage. 

Roy hears the house backdoor slam. He sees Bruce walk out and head to the woodpile where he fills his arms full with a load of split wood and then heads back inside. Then back out for more. He's wearing the knit skull cap Roy gave him. He piles the wood into his arms. A big armful he has trouble seeing over. He doesn't notice Roy watching. 

Then Bruce returns to fix the tarp covering the woodpile. Folds the corners. Tucks it tight. Cinderblocks keep it snug. 

While watching, Roy packs a snowball and pitches it towards Bruce, nailing him on the shoulder. A huge smile erupts across Roy's face as Bruce turns shocked and sees him, Roy already packing a new one. 

Bruce hurries and returns the favor but misses, then ducks and Roy's snowball hits the garage. Back and forth, dodging and ducking, hiding behind the truck and the woodpile. A handful of misses then a hit. Roy calls a truce and walks towards him. 

The wind picks up; snow starting to sting. Roy asks about the roads and his car. Bruce says not good, okay. He stopped and got stuff for supper. He asks how soon until Roy has to head out to plow. As soon as the town calls. But probably not until later. Possible power outages too.

Bruce looks up to the sky. Overhead heavy as dusk slowly settles. Above them the snow in swirls and gusts. Bruce dusts off his jacket. Then reaches up to dust off Roy's hair. And the snow in his beard. He says he filled the wood box inside.

Roy looks at him. Then leans in to kiss Bruce. At the last minute Bruce sticks out his tongue and Roy gets goosed. Bruce grins. And all of Roy spins inside. 

He sends Bruce in. Yells to let Jones out. The dog has been barking non stop. Roy checks the garage doors, double checks the snow-blower. Then around to the back of the woodpile where he digs under the tarp for a small hunk of branch. There's a pile of sticks stashed. Some seasoned oak and ash Roy saves for the dog.

And then across and down, the dog bounds. He stops and pisses, then sees Roy. Tail wagging, body wiggling back and forth, bent in half with excitement. Ears back submissive. Roy gets another tongue and a face full of lick. Roy gives him the branch and they head towards the house, snow falling heavier flakes. The dog already at the door, wiggling still excited. Roy stomp stomp stomping the snow off his boots as he climbs up the porch steps.

Daylight finally slumbers under the weight of another storm.