was on hospice duty, sticking close to his ailing black-andwhite tuxedo kitty. We talked for hours, as he tenderly cared for her, as feathery flakes drifted down outside the kitchen window. We ate some more snowball cookies, drank cups and cups of tea. I held his cat’s weightless body on my lap. Pleased to meet you and goodbye, we said to each other. After a long while, Cal gently pulled my wool-covered feet up into his lap, rubbed warmth into them with his big hands, which felt sensational and more. Something real and undeniable began to grow and take form between us. It shimmered there like an unopened Christmas gift. As we watched the day turn to dusk, I reached for Cal’s hand. I felt his warmth and openness, his gentleness and his strength. I felt possibility, and forgiveness, even. This was a man I already knew well, so when the moment felt right, I reached for all of him. Cal had the combination of strength and tenderness I’d been craving all my life, and which, for so long, had always eluded me. And he was heart-meltingly romantic, too. Most cowboys are, he assured me, and he should know.
W
hen Cal placed the palms of his hands on my cheeks and leaned in close, I knew it was going to be a really good kiss. He took possession of my lips, very slowly. His kiss was gentle at first. And then, like all the best kisses, it grew into a conversation. I had a great deal to say, after holding so much back, out of fear, and because I wasn’t ready. It was a kiss that carried both of us forward — even though I was still a bit of a mess, and even though, this late-life love came after quite a long, uncertain wait for Cal. But, none of this really mattered. These last bits of rough weather blew over soon enough, leaving behind something calm and strong and sure.
SIXFOLD FICTION SUMMER 2018
Wendy Cohan
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