by Bob Merckel
He was a lot like snow in a big city. He tended to disappear as quickly as he came, and was never quite as enchanting once the the morning rush hour started. But, ah, those first few quiet hours before sunrise. He'd lie on top of me like a thick, white blanket, protecting me from everything that might have seemed real. He flew in from Jack London with his untamed insular warmth, a cold so heavy that it lulled you to sleep, just before you froze to death. And then, amidst foggy dreams of bearskin rugs and Eskimo kisses, he would vanish while I wasn't paying attention, leaving only a wet spot.
Bob Merckel, author of Quitting is Hard, lives in London, teaches English, and scribbles stories - the likes of which can be found in Tales of the Decongested, Shaggy Blog Stories (and on his blog).