“Miah, it’s Cold Outside”

“Miah, it’s Cold Outside”

(Apologies to Frank Loesser)

Snow hadn’t quite settled yet, but it threatened to. Outside the tall windows of Albert’s apartment, Manhattan glowed in soft reds and greens—department store lights strung like constellations, taxis sliding through wet streets, a distant Salvation Army bell ringing somewhere below. Christmas was close enough to feel, but not close enough to be loud about it.

Inside, the apartment was warm in that old-fashioned way: a gas fireplace humming quietly, a Christmas tree tucked into the corner with modest ornaments—glass bulbs, tinsel, nothing blinking. A gramophone sat proudly on a low cabinet, its brass horn catching the firelight as the needle traced a familiar melody.

“I really can’t stay…”

Miah stood near the door, gloves still on, her wool coat buttoned tight. Snowflakes clung to the hem like indecision.

“I really should go,” she said, glancing at the window, then at the clock above the bar cart.

Albert leaned against the doorframe, relaxed but attentive, as though the night had placed him exactly there on purpose. “Miah, it’s cold outside.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it again if I have to,” he replied, nodding toward the window. “New York doesn’t mess around in December.”

The gramophone crackled softly as the singer continued, “This evening has been… been hoping that you’d drop in…”

Miah glanced at the record, then back at Albert. “You planned this,” she said.

“Planned what?” Albert asked.

“The song. The fire. The tree.” Miah said.

Albert pushed himself off the doorframe and walked closer. “I planned for it to be warm. Everything else is just good timing.”

She slipped one glove off, then the other. “I was only going to stay a minute.”

“Funny,” he said gently, taking her coat. “That’s not what your hands are saying.” He wrapped his fingers around hers briefly. “They’re just like ice.”

“My mother will start to worry,” Miah said, though she didn’t pull away.

“Beautiful, what’s your hurry?” Albert said, not teasing—more sincere than that. He gestured toward the sofa. “Sit. Warm up.”

She hesitated, then relented, perching at the edge of the couch. “My father will be pacing the floor by now,” she added.

Albert poured two drinks—something amber, modest, old-fashioned—and handed her one. “Listen to the fireplace roar,” he said. “Well… maybe just a half a drink more.”

She took it, exhaling as the warmth spread. “The neighbors might think.”

“Miah, it’s bad out there,” Albert replied smoothly. “And besides—say, what’s in this drink?”

She raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t know, that’s on you.”

Outside, a bus hissed to a stop. Somewhere, someone laughed. The city carried on, unaware of the small drama unfolding several floors above it.

Albert sat beside her, close but not crowding. “I wish I knew how,” he said softly, “to break this spell.” He reached up, removing her knit hat with care. “Your hair looks swell.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I ought to say no. No, no, no.”

“Mind if I move in closer?” he asked.

Miah tilted her head, amused. “You’re very pushy, you know.”

“I like to think of it as… opportunistic,” he replied.

The record continued: “My sister will be suspicious…”

Miah sighed. “She would be.”

“And my brother would be at the door,” Albert said. “If he could get through the snow.”

She laughed quietly. “Gosh… your lips look delicious,” she said, deliberately echoing the lyric.

Albert leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Careful. The song’s doing all the flirting for us.”

“Maybe just a cigarette more?” she teased.

“You don’t smoke.” Albert replied.

“Neither do you.” Miah said. 

“I’ve got to get home,” Miah said again, though she made no move toward the door.

“Miah, you’ll freeze out there.” Albert replied.

She looked down at their hands, now resting close together. “There’s bound to be talk tomorrow. Think of my lifelong sorrow.”

Albert smiled. “At least there’ll be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died.”

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth. “That’s awful.”

“But festive,” he said.

The song drifted toward its end, the gramophone slowing just slightly, as if reluctant. Snow had begun to fall properly now, soft and steady, blanketing the street below.

Miah leaned back against the sofa, finally at ease. She looked at Albert, then at the spinning record.
“…You know,” she said, smiling, “we end up making a dialogue out of a song, don’t we?”

Albert met her gaze, warmth in his eyes. “Seems like the best conversation we’ve had all winter.”

Outside, New York turned quietly white. Inside, the record spun on, Christmas hovered just days away, and neither of them seemed in any real hurry to let the night end.