3.2.10

Franklin sat, motionless, staring out the frosted window at the gathering crystalline drifts.

No two the same.

“Do you need something?”

His caretaker, perpetually too close at hand, was instantly at his side. Apparently he’d spoken out loud, a mumbled whisper, his vocal cords diminished with lack of use. He shook his head, eyes trained away from her cheerfully strained expression. He appreciated her attention to detail; she brought his tea just as he liked, piping hot with honey, and always right before he realized he wanted it. Still, she was too bent on improving his mood, coaxing him to speak, bringing him distractions when all he wanted was to be alone.

She retreated reluctantly, presumably to prepare his afternoon meal, and he tried halfheartedly to remember her name. Sarah? Sophie? After years of rotating nurses, each vaguely less feminine than the last, he hardly cared to recall specifics.

It used to be so different; Franklin’s unstoppable longing to experience every woman alive led him through many short-lived but fiery affairs. He was blessed with endless curiosity and attention to detail which endeared him to so many but just as quickly caused him to lose interest and move on to the next. He craved variety, excited by each new smile and winking lash, amazingly new yet familiar. That feeling, just like a child’s joy with fresh fallen snow, diminished with age and the realization that by winter’s end pollution is inescapable.

A single large flake landed on the sill outside and he watched it melt, losing shape, becoming one with the rest.