A Year of Winter

twelve

I nodded my head, “Yeah, but I just…”

“…You don’t know her.”

“So? Do you?”

“…I feel like I don’t know you that well.”

Winter frowned, looking at me directly, her gaze not faltering even for a second. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, nervously anticipating what she’d say to me; if she’d get mad at me for prying, like usual, or if she’d just plainly dismiss it.

“Then ask me something,” she said simply, relaxing back in her chair, as if preparing herself for a long interrogation. She crossed her arms and looked at me, smiling.

I tried not to make it too obvious that I was shocked; shocked that she was letting me in; shocked because she hadn’t before. But to avoid conflict, I leaned in slightly and thought of one of the most general questions imaginable; a sort of question that might be on a survey you get at school, or in a quiz you take on the back of a magazine for fun.

I smiled, adjusting my glasses. “Alright,” I said quietly, scanning my brain for something that would suffice, “um…do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Winter paused for a minute, as if to keep me on the edge. She pursed her lips, looking at me blankly, “I have one sister. Bronwyn. She’s twenty-two years old.”

I smiled, “You never told me you had a sister.”

“Well, I am now.” She said, shrugging simply. She kicked one foot over the other, sitting cross-legged, “Any other burning questions simply dying to be answered?”

I went on, firing questions like a cannon, “Any pets?”

“Nope.”

“Favorite color?”

“Don’t have one. Don’t have a favorite number, either. I think it’s stupid. What’s that supposed to tell you about me?”

I shrugged, “Touché,” I mumbled, “Got any other friends besides me?”

She smirked, “You’re more of a pet, Henry.” She said, laughing, “But no, not really. I don’t usually do friends.”

“Why not?”

“They’re not dependable.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a contradiction.”

“How?”

“Friends are supposed to be dependable.”

She rolled her eyes, unamused, “Well, raisins aren’t supposed to taste like shit, but they do.”

“Have you tasted shit?”

“Next question please, Mr. Carson.”

I smirked, though I wasn’t going to let go of this opportunity so willingly. “So, why do you feel so negatively about making friends?”

“It’s never worked out for me.”

I made a dramatic gesture to myself, and she laughed.

“You’re a different story, Book Boy,” she said with a shrug. “Most people don’t like to stick around, you know?”

“Like who?”

“Like everyone.”

I leaned against the table, wanting to come right out with it and say her name. I wanted to ask what everyone had against each other, and why I was pushed into the middle of a war when I didn’t even know what they were fighting for. But I didn’t want to, and I couldn’t, and I knew I never would.