The Next One

There is a woman at the door of the ice house, in a clean apron. Around her neck on a string hangs an aluminum tag with a number stamped in it and nothing under the number. She has not gone in. Is this the ice house? she says. They said I would be staying.

The ice house closes at two, you tell her. You stay. Someone has to watch the machine make ice, and it is you.

All right, she says. You lift, then push, and the door gives. You show her the nail, and the coat on it, which is hers if she wants it. You show her the bin that sticks. You give her the pen from your apron pocket. It has been here the whole time. You tell her the compressor hums a note she will know, and she says she doesn't, and you say she will.

If you wrote down BACKWARD, you tell her to warm the card and not scrape it.

You go out. The lot lights flicker once, then twice, then once. You count them to the end.