Forest fires run their course. They burn themselves out eventually. Jude had always thought the same about people; becoming and diminishing anger was relatively easy, and short-term. It always had been for her, anyways. A good temper, and a carefree personality enabled her to grow irritated at only the most major of situations, and even then, it didn't take long before she cooled down, and returned to a rational state of mind.
It was different for Thom; she had learned that today. Jude had always depicted him as a carefree, loose soul as well. He'd never so much as raised his voice at her, or at anyone in their combined presence, in eight years.
Even though he had broken the ice in terms of shouting at Jude this afternoon, she believed all it would take for him to settle down was a nice, quiet dinner-no talking about his day, or his work; no talking at all. But even after their stomachs had been filled and plates plates had been cleared, the silence persisted, stretching all the way until Thom rose from the leather couch that sat, ready to be broken in, in their living room.
"I'll come to bed soon," said Jude, staring at Thom's back; his muscles tense under a black t-shirt.
Holding a finger against the page of the novel she had just begun, she closed it slightly, still watching Thom in awe. He marched towards the bedroom, closing the door behind him, without a single word to her.
Hurt was an understatement. Jude had never experienced such behaviour from Thom. Blood coursed through her body rapidly, the drum of her heartbeat loud in her newfound solitude. Her heart strained, feeling as though a piece of it-the piece that had belonged to Thom for so many years-was nearly falling off. It wasn't lost, nor broken. Just dangling by a thread.
The drapes had been pulled tightly shut since Thom came home; always a man who preferred the dark. After several minutes of scanning the words several times on the same page, Jude closed her book, set it on the coffee table, and followed in Thom's heavy footsteps.
She didn't like sleeping alone. Thom had spent so many nights at her house, having snuck inside through the back door. On nights that he couldn't make it over, she barely slept. Her body shivered; afraid of something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She didn't know what it was about the dark that stirred panic in the depths of her body and mind; all she knew was that when someone slept beside her, and she listened to the sound of their relaxed, repetitive breathing, she felt safer.
So even though Thom and Jude weren't on the best terms-for reason unknown to Jude-she climbed into the left side of their bed, pulled the sheets to her chin, and listened for the monotonous breathing of Thom's slumber.
He stirred lightly beside her. Nothing much-just an adjustment of his arm, or twitch of his leg. It was enough to alert Jude that he was still awake. Rolling over, she peered through the dark, just able to make out the outline of his firm jaw, his lips partly open. Pretending to be asleep.
For a moment, Jude did nothing. She lay still, watching Thom's eyelids flutter. And then she raised her hand, resting her palm on his chest. His eyes still didn't open, although his body jumped. She had startled him. She hadn't meant to.
Almost instinctively, Thom grabbed her hand-a little too tight, which Jude decided was because she had caught him off guard-and shoved it off of his body.
He turned, the bed frame beneath them groaning from his weight. Once again, Jude was left staring at his back, yearning for an explanation for him being so cold.
-
Jude's bare feet sunk into the white carpet of their bedroom. The red on her toenails had chipped, but she'd forgotten to bring the bottle with her from Kenora. Thom had hung the framed photo of the Labrador sea that Jude's father had taken before she was born; from when he and her mother travelled across North America after graduating from college together.
And now she stared at it, fixated. She wondered if it was off-centre slightly. She decided that it was.
Thom had begrudgingly hung the photo when he arrived home from work last night. It had been ten days since his first day, and although he said it had improved, and that he was enjoying the work and his colleagues, he hadn't shown any sign of lifted spirits towards Jude. He spoke in minimal sentences, which she was used to, but his tone was laced with aggression, and she still had yet to discover what the cause was.
The forest fire continued to burn.
Giving up on staring at the photo and convincing herself that it wasn't positioned straight, she wandered aimlessly into the hallway, admiring the photos Thom had also hung-and not bothering to scrutinize their levelity. The apartment was fully furnished and decorated now, and other than Thom having suddenly grown distant, everything was perfect.
Jude had written ten poems in the past four days. She had found a quaint cafe two blocks from their apartment, where she liked to write and, sometimes, doodle. The store manager remembered her name after two visits-a balding man with a thick Italian accent, who never seemed to feel anything other than ecstatic. And Jude, being an avid people-watcher, spent hours of each writing session peering out the window, watching people stumble out of the bar, embarrassed to be so drunk in daylight.
People smoked cigarettes at the side of the bar. Jude had never tried one-would never try one-but she liked the way it looked. Smoke cascading freely out of the mouths of mostly older men, and a pair of two young adults who Jude presumed to be bartenders. Everyone looked so relaxed. For her, her muse was poetry. For others, it was nicotine and smoke. Jude had always liked watching people put themselves at ease.
Thom may not be at ease in the city, living alone with Jude. But as Jude walked in the early afternoon towards the cafe, brown hair hidden beneath a wool hat to protect her from the sharp wind, she was undeniably happy. A tree in full bloom amidst a snow-covered Toronto; that was how she felt.
Warm coffee in her left hand to gradually restore feeling of the skin that had grown numb, and a black pen in her right. Ink dripped from the tip and onto the cover of her notebook, and she swirled it around the plastic, mesmerized. Content with spreading the black ink around the polka dots that decorated the book, she swiped her fingers over it, watching her skin stain. Always in love with the way writing looked on skin, she turned her fingers over and over, smiling at her work. She didn't mean writing in terms of printing actual words on her hands, but the leftover smudges of frustration and adrenaline that decorated her hands and wrists which persisted even after a long shower.
The day passed agonizingly quickly, but not unproductively. Jude had filled another three pages with poems, as well as scribbling alongside the margins for future sessions and ideas. She hated that the poems she had written today were mostly about Thom. They were always about Thom, of course-but today they were fuelled with anger, and betrayal, even though, on the surface, she didn't feel angry or betrayed. But it created good pieces, so, content with what she had accomplished, she packed up her over-shoulder bag and headed out of the cafe.
Always prepared for everything, yet always unprepared for the snow. Jude blinked through the falling sheets of thick, white flakes, still unfamiliar with these streets, and slightly anxious that she'd wind up on the wrong street if she didn't pay enough attention to where she was walking.
Fortunately for her, she seemed to remember the way back to the apartment without any visible cues, as they were all concealed by the snow that, to Jude, now seemed appropriate to be classified as a blizzard.
She saw Thom's shoes immediately. Sleek, black dress shoes; never left neatly at the doormat, but instead scattered two feet apart from each other, nearly blocking the entrance of the door. Surprised, and slightly afraid, after what had happened last time he had arrived home early from work, she said, "Thom, babe? I'm home."
There was no response, which Jude was now accustomed to. It felt like she was talking to a wall at times, but at least this wall had eyes, a mouth-clues related to his behaviour.
He was sat in the centre of the couch, half a glass of red wine in his hand. Feet up on the coffee table, which Jude hated, and which he was aware of. The drapes closed but mere sunlight-that burst through the escalating snow-peaked through. His silhouette was pronounced against the adjacent wall, and for the first time since Jude had met him, she was frightened by his appearance.
And yet she tried to coax herself out of it. She was being ridiculous, of course. It was Thom. Just a little angry, a little drunk, Thom. Sitting in the dark. Nothing to be scared of-he's your boyfriend.
"Did you come home early because of the snow?" Jude asked tentatively. She ran her fingers across the walls of the narrow hallway; the courage to enter the same room as Thom had not yet been established.
"Blizzard."
So she had been correct in referring to it, mentally, as a blizzard. Good to know.
And that was Thom's version of an affirmation to her question.
After a minute of silence, in which Jude felt the quiet crawling up her skin; scratching, itching-a bug she couldn't shake-he spoke again: "And I don't get fucking paid for it, either. Not my fault that it's snowing. I didn't want to leave. I would've stayed and walked home in this weather. But my boss was all 'go home, Thom, it's not safe. It's not safe to drive in this weather. Go home to your girlfriend, be with her.'" Thom laughed, a deep sound from the back of his throat that was clearly meant to make fun of what his boss had said.
Jude stung. Skin electrified with energy, but her mind too shattered to act on it. How could he laugh about that? Jude would've loved to be let off work early to spend the rest of the day with Thom. She decided she had interpreted the laugh wrong. And although Thom didn't seem drunk-his words were coherent; they didn't slur together more than they did when he was sober-she decided that he was, and was in the wrong state of mind. When Thom was drunk, she wasn't supposed to take anything he said seriously, or to heart.
Ignoring his continued murmurs that were presumably meant for himself, she hesitantly walked into the kitchen, finding herself tip-toeing upon the hardwood. Don't make any sudden moves. Again.
And then her wine glass slipped from her fingers. It was him who had placed them on the highest shelf in the kitchen. It was him who wanted her to mess up, to purposely drop the glass while reaching it. It was his fault that there was glass on the floor, much like how her heart felt. And it was his fault that the noise had startled him, that he was now stomping into the kitchen.
It was his fault that he had grabbed Jude's bicep, his fingertips forcefully sinking into her tender skin.
He had never touched her like that before. Never grown angry with her. Never raised his voice.
Never set his own glass down on the counter beside them, and with that same hand formed a fist. Never punched Jude in her left cheek, just above her jaw, painted her black and blue.
Thom never hurt Jude.
Thom never hit Jude.
Thom never made her scream; made her wish that instead she had stepped on the glass shards, because that would hurt less than her boyfriend hitting her.
Thom never broke Jude until the day they saw their first blizzard.
And the thread that Thom had been swinging from, greedily; the thread that held him in the space she had created inside her heart for him, broke.
A piece of her heart on the floor with fragments of glass. A piece that was made for Thom, loved by Thom, now left for Thom to clean up. Like the tears on her chin and the bruise on her cheek.
Only he wouldn't clean it. A man who built bridges only to tear the concrete down. A man who built fires and ran from the heat.
The forest fire blazed.