The Ice Age by Kirsten Reed Page A

swept by a tornado. There was an autoworkers’ strike, and they were predicting a drought.
    Gunther said, ‘Hungry?’
    I said, ‘Yeah.’
    Damn it how Gunther seemed to know his way around every town, no matter what a backwater it was, and how much he seemed like a piece of velvet on a hessian sack. Like a cat padding through his territory, he drove us to a well-decent little restaurant off the beaten track.
    Hell, was it romantic. There were candles and red wine. No one seemed to care that I was way underage. I just sat across from him beaming. He returned my gaze with plenty of feeling, and that touch of kindly pity that seemed to be increasing as the evening wore on; seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to the rise in my romantic zeal. After all, it was nearly bedtime.
    In the car, on the way home—on the way back to the sleazy motel—I told him about the ice age.
    I explained the whole thing, with as much scientific accuracy as I could. I covered the mud samples, the Gulf Stream, the sinking salt, the melting ice caps, the increased global warming, et cetera.
    He grinned sadly, with no hint of teeth, and said, ‘Is that what we have in store for us?’
    I said, ‘Yes, it is!’ and involuntarily leaned in toward him. I desperately want to share that phase of existence with him, bound together by love and necessity, watching this mad planet get its own back. That was definitely in store for us. He must understand that. There would be no disappearing for several days, driving off without a clue. He could do that, but he would lose all his warmth, all his shelter and safety; all that would undoubtedly become sacred.
    When we got back to the motel, and I stretched out my arms toward him, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.’ He drew back a half step. ‘I never meant to.’
    Again, I only stared.
    â€˜I’m old…er than you,’ he said, by way of feeble explanation. ‘You know? You’re not old enough to even know what you want. I can’t take someone like that.’
    â€˜And you’re old enough to not want anything anymore,’ I snapped.
    â€˜I want things.’ He sounded genuinely hurt. I didn’t anticipate such flippancy could have an impact on Sir. Master of His Own Domain. Mr. Even Keel.
    â€˜I want you to know my sincerest friendship. As I do for all my dear…special friends.’
    Oh Gunther, ever the disarming one. Hearing him call me ‘dear’ and ‘special’ quieted me down. But I was still feeling princessy enough to fuss over the point of having to share him with the rest of these gourmet friends, and wondered how many we were talking. I’ll always want to be his special #1, the way he is for me.
    â€˜Friends are a very special thing,’ he said.
    I said, ‘I know.’
    I crawled into the fetal position on one side of the bed and tried to sleep. I tossed off clothes intermittently, and strewed them on the floor. I wasn’t sure how much to take off, now that the line had been drawn at ‘just friends’ again. But I wanted to be comfy.
    He turned the lights off and tried to sleep, too. It seemed so unnatural, forcing ourselves to stay apart like that. It was hard to sleep with the tension of it. He must have felt the energy coming off me the way, I was sure, I felt the energy coming off him, because by morning I was wrapped in his arms. We didn’t get up to anything. Just held each other.
    He got up even earlier than usual, and started on his morning routine. I could tell we were leaving by the nature of his preparations. Everything was going back in its place. Things were finding their way into orderly piles. I was still lying in bed, watching him.
    He came and sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a button-down shirt, his undies, and socks. Gunther never was too concerned about covering up and all that. Let’s face it; we’ve been