Ultimatum

He sat at the head of the table,

telling me his story,

as if he knew I would write down

all the little details

of what he had to say. 

Maybe, he said,

this--all these words--

will mean something to you.

He arched his eyebrows

and sipped his steaming coffee. 

He shook his head and spoke. 

I was so cold, he said.

I used to sit,

shivering in my chair,

both sets of legs

trembling.

I'd watch my fingernails turn

from soft pink to vibrant blue,

but still,

she wouldn't budge.

The money,

she'd say,

think of the money we're saving.

And I'd think to myself, 

what about my sanity?

Isn't my sanity important to you? 

Good point,

I interjected. 

She couldn't see it that way,

at least not at first, he replied.

And so each night, after work,

I trudged to the library,

where I'd spend many a warm hour.

Unfurling my fingers.

Breathing in warm air.

Living.

And at that moment, he said,

as he leaned in over the table 

and caught my gaze,

I realized that my quality of life suffered 

by her desire to keep the 

temperature so low. 

Either the temperature went up,

or I would leave.

What happened then? I asked as

he tapped the mug 

and shrugged his shoulders.

She acquiesced, he said. 

We moved the thermostat up

by four degrees.

Four degrees.

Enough to make a difference? I asked.

Yes. 

Just enough to make a difference.

I wasn't cold anymore.

 

But I often wonder what my life would be like,

if she had simply said no

 to my ultimatum.