Duluth

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The dog. The damned dog. It had been barking all night, an awful, desperate noise, and she finally jammed an elbow into my ribs and asked me to do something. Like what? I almost said. I got up instead, wrapped myself in a blanket, and headed for the kitchen. It was cold, a bone-snapping arctic cold, and I fed another log into the stove. I’d been warned about the mosquitoes and black flies, and had come prepared. By the time she joined me, the cool nights of September had done their job, and the fall was glorious. Work went well, for both of us, and if I didn’t think too much about it I would’ve said we were in love. I closed the door to the stove and listened for the dog. Nothing. Strange. She didn’t move when I climbed into bed and tried to wrap her in my arms. I gave up and rolled onto my side, face toward the wall. Do you know, she said after a minute, that in the forests north of Lake Superior it sometimes gets so cold that trees explode? I was going to ask her how she knew but instead said, Don’t believe everything you read. She moved away from me. Before I could say I was sorry, she said, Don’t be mad at me when I leave. I won’t, I said, as the dog began to bark.