On Nights Like This I.P.

Autumn sighs have turned to winter snarls
and little angry stones of ice, launch
their machine gun assault upon the panes.

On nights like this, I think of him...and the smell of him.

He would stamp his boots outside my bedroom window; it was adjacent to the front porch door.
When he was sure that the heaviest of the mud and muck were left to the elements, he would enter and with a loud, groaning sigh, trap the heel of one wellington under the toe of the other and slip and shake his woolen-socked foot from its protective custody.

I watched him surreptitiously through the crack in the curtains, as he wiggled, first one set of toes, then the other; a euphoric expression spreading across his countenance.

Then in mock horror, he would snap his head from side to side and shout;
“I feel like I am being watched! Are there ghosts out this winters night, looking to drag a poor tired soul back out, into the darkness, to send wails upon the gale, to frighten any naughty children that are not yet in their beds?”

He would, of course, seek these abominable creatures, in every direction, other than directly in my window space. I would streak – my bare feet slapping noisily on the lino-covered floor – to my bed; jumping in, pull the blankets to my chin and peak, over my grasping fingers at the horizontal stream of light at the bottom of the bedroom door; waiting.

Shadows would break the symmetry and, at the first gentle creak of the handle, I would squeeze my eyes tight shut and wonder, that I could, for a moment still see the beam, as if by magic. Then the darkness would loose its blackness, replaced by a red glow, as the strong hall light tried to defy the shutters, that were my eyelids.

As I heard the muffled wooly steps coming closer, the tingle of excitement, would imprison my breath within my chest and, in gloriously fearful anticipation; my hands defiantly gripping tighter, I would hear him state – a little too loudly;
“Ah, I see there are only good boys in this house tonight, cuddled up in bed and sound asleep!”

I would, involuntarily, snort at the pretense, though holding the pose; to move yet would be to spoil the game.
“But what is that I see moving under the covers, at the end of the bed? Could it be a mouse or maybe a giant spider...or maybe one of the dogs has got in...I had better catch it before it bites this good boy, who is sound asleep...”

With that, his hand would shoot under the covers, at my feet and grab my foot, inadvertently tickling it. The shock, though fully expected, would bring forth a screech and have me jump in the bed laughing hysterically; my heart beating like a carnival drum, whereby he would shout theatrically;
“It's alright, I've got him; don't worry!” then; “Oh no! He's escaped, I think he has gone up here..”

He would then, follow the phantom intruder up the bed towards my head, grabbing and tickling as he went. By the time that he got to my head, he would be laughing as much as I. We would finish the game with my arms around his neck, his around my back and me snuggled into his collar, breathing in the familiar smell of him...