Brazen

“I’m calling it.” The doctor said, his voice steady.

 He stated the time with practiced certainty. His composure sure, unrattled. 

The words repeated in my mind as I stared down at the child. A small form on a large table. I felt the weight of the cloud settle over me. It encompassed me, just as it always did. 

I sat in my car. The ignition off. A cup of coffee untouched in my hand. 

Twelve deaths. This week alone. 

The number wasn’t large, not in the scope of a city with half a dozen hospitals, not in the scope of a state, of a country. 

I stared at the cup, steam rising slowly from the lip. My fist clamped down and the lid popped, spilling its hot contents down my front.

“Damn it.”

From burning heat to freezing cold. 

The liquid soaking into my shirt hits hard as the wind cuts, cleaner than any scalpel. 

Shivering, I reach behind my back, pulling my shirt over my head.

“I was just about to ask you to do that.”

The voice is on the verge of laughing and I spin. My eyes land on the man leaning against the bus stop nearby. His smile is half smirk as he raises a hand, giving a slight, lazy wave.

The soft light from the street lamp reveals no one else on the street.

What am I doing. The thought pushes forward, cutting through the fog. His eyes don’t leave me, and I shiver again, unsure if it’s due to the wind or his gaze.

“Well, that won’t do.” The man says, walking forward, “Body heat is essential, wouldn’t you agree?”

I’m about to protest, but before I can say a thing, he drapes his coat across my shoulders.

“My numbers in the lining.” He says, walking away as the bus pulls up. He turns his head back, his smirk returning. “I trust you to return it soon.”

I lean softly against my apartment door. My hand running over the coats rough fabric.

Even as my fingers drift to the inside of the coat I question if that really just happened.

I peel the coat off, the inner liner sliding softly against my skin. 

I spin the coat around and reread the number printed inside.

I can’t, I think, draping the coat across the back of a chair.

My hand lingers there, fingers brushing lightly against the coat.

Twelve deaths today. 

But somehow, I smile.