Creepin' in

It's 4 in the morning, and the world is a silent orb. I have defeated all signs of sleepiness, save for the cold that settles in my bones and won't go away. I switch off the ignition, close the garage door, climb the stairs quietly.

Earlier in the evening Kik and I were dancing the blues at the Strange Brew. Kik, and Lincoln who came out from the seacoast, where I visited the night before. Aaron and David and a cast of unknown others people the rustic tavern, Manchester's one and only worthwhile attraction after 10 O'clock at night. The band plays, and the layers of clothing are peeled off, one by one, until all that's left is a thin layer of black, and bare shoulders. We dance and sway our hips to the rhythm, we are the only ones on the dance floor all night. New Hampshire is so proper some times, I think.

I am cold. It is 1:30 and we have all been sent from the bar, we say goodbye, and the boys and I go to the favorite late night diner, the Red Arrow. Despite their best efforts, I refuse to eat a single bite of the monstrous midnight meals they inhale. I made a deal with myself, and I am sticking with it. I amusedly sip my decaf coffee knowing that it will keep me going. Suddenly voices are raised and my friend and ex-lover is yelling at me, and I at him, about (of all things!) that I don't know about love, or that my vision of the world is an aberration. Another friend, in his inebriation wraps his arms around me, kissing my cheek, restraining me... "It's ok," he soothes me, and I don't know if the trembling sensation that shoots through me is because of the confrontation, the copious levels of caffeine coursing through my veins, or the icy chill that has suddenly settled into me, and I look at the clock, and out the window, past the novelty salt shakers and the frosted glass. It is 3. Another fight erupts, spreading discord, this time between my booth-mate and his best friend. The waitress and I try to make light of the situation and shuffle the boys on out.

It is 3:30 am and I finally manage to drop off the last of my companions, I don't feel tired, but I know my body has already begun shutting down. My shoulder doesn't hurt too much now, but my feet, despite the boots and the heater, are cold beyond salvation. I just want to be home.

It is 4, and the house is silent, and cold, because my parents maintain a temperature of below 65 degrees. I think longingly of my dangerous blasting gas heater at home, that I can light up and roast my frozen members in front of when necessary. I decide to take a wicked hot shower, in what I know to be a futile attempt to combat this metabolic chill. The water feels good on my naked skin, it burns and soothes, and reminds me of pleasures that are free, and mine alone. But then I am freezing again. So, wrapped in flannel, I search the room on the other side of the house to find it empty and cold.

I discover the child in her blanket bed on the floor of her grandparents' room. It is chillier in there than elsewhere. I selfishly tug at her, "hey baby," I whisper, wanting only to wake her enough to ambulate from one bedroom to another, but not to disturb her sleep. She, in her zombie-like trance picks up the blankets that are wrapped around her. "It is freezing," she mumbles, and I whisper back, "that's why I came for you, I need my hot potato..." We curl into her bed, which was actually my bed that she usurped, and wrap myself in a human blanket, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood, that shares half of my genetic code.

I creep in and my heart swells with love for this child that is almost as large as I am, and then, finally, I sleep.