'Tis The Damn Season

"DAMN IT," Dorothea curses at the wind when the first snowflakes start falling over the unpaved road. She stops in her tracks and glances at the sky, as if getting mad at it was going to stop the upcoming blizzard. "The weatherman said it wasn't gonna snow tonight," she groans to herself. Snowflakes start to pile over her eyelashes and she takes her hands off her coat's pockets to adjust her dark yellow beanie, the sharp cold freezing her bare fingers. With a sigh, she adjusts the heavy plastic bag over her shoulder, puts her icy hands back in her pockets, and picks up her pace in hopes she can make it back home before the real snowstorm hits. 

        I told you you shouldn't have gone on foot, she can already hear her mother say in her head. Staying over at her parents for the holidays was both a blessing and a curse. The moment she set foot in the kitchen, where her mom was cooking their Christmas supper, she found some chore for her to do. And that chore was to go over to Joe's to get her a bottle of whiskey for the eggnog that she had forgotten to pick up. Because, no, it couldn't be the cheap whiskey from the market close to their house, of course, it had to be Joe's whiskey, on the other side of the town. Granted it was a small town, but still. She offered the car, but Dorothea didn't take up the offer to use the opportunity to take a better look at her hometown, which she hadn't been able to do since she got there.

        The snow gets thicker and in a few minutes, Dottie can barely see what's in front of her. She moves over to the side of the road right just as headlights appear in the whiteout and a truck rushes beside her. She puts one of her hands over her eyes, trying to see better, but it's basically useless.

        She was really regretting not having taken that stupid car.

        Dorothea stares at the unbending ocean of white in front of her in defiance, but her house is still a good twenty minutes away and the snowstorm keeps somehow getting worse. The ground is already swamped in snow and she drags her feet over the road. Daydreaming about the hot supper that was waiting for her at home was the only thing that kept her going.

        The wind works as a force against her, and she has to stop covering her eyes to hold her beanie in place. The tip of her nose is turning red and starting to freeze, so she keeps walking while looking at the ground, trying her hardest to brave the intense wind howling in her ears.

        The sun is sinking down and the shadows on the road are stretching over her, and she stops again to look back at the direction she came, but she's already in the middle of the way, and turning back wouldn't make that much of a difference. When she looks forward again, there it is, like a lighthouse in the violent sea—the yellow, bright, lit up windows of someone's house, shining in the middle of the snow.

         Cautiously to not slip, she rushes over to the house, the big, heavy bottle of whiskey jiggling under her arm and the sharp wind freezing her entire face. As she gets closer, the house starts to take shape until she's panting in front of the door. She takes a deep breath before lifting her shivering hand up to the doorbell. She can hear the muffled ringing inside the house and rubs her hands together, trying to warm them up.

         Dorothea looks back at the road. The sun has almost disappeared by now, the light grey sky has turned into a dark blue. The sound of someone opening the door catches her attention behind her and she turns back to apologize for disturbing their Christmas dinner, but when she realizes who it is her mouth goes dry and she can't think of a single thing to say.

          Standing in front of her is Sam, wearing a dark pullover and a puzzled look on his face. His dark eyebrows are furrowed over his dark brown eyes as if he's just as surprised as Dorothea to see her knocking on his door.