Why isn't anyone talking about the ice storm?

[One hour]

This afternoon, fear gripped the city. Our offices were silent as tombs as we moved through the dwindling daylight, our faces drawn and gaunt, avoiding one another's gaze. In every home and building, men and women avoided the windows, consciously or not -- for through that tenuous glass membrane we could feel the temperature dropping. We could watch the clouds flowing eastward, hastening our certain doom. How many of us would see Monday morning? Better to turn inward and click grimly at the Internet, denial pounding in our ears.

Dusk. On my way home from work, I stopped by the bread-and-batteries queue at the Stephens building, their annual Christmas light display winking on and off in the descending darkness. A line of families stretched around the block, and beneath the bonhomie of the familiar red-and-green "NOBLESSE OBLIGE!" some people seemed to be achieving a scrap of normalcy, conversing and nervously chuckling. I eavesdropped on their talk of sports, politics, domestic dramas, acclaimed HBO series. None, of course, mentioned the hell about to befall our state. Next to me in line, shivering and scowling, stood a father of perhaps fifty years with a young girl at his side. Her face turned upwards toward his.

"When is the ice storm getting here, Papa?" she asked, innocently. Her shrill voice carried far too far in the frigid December air. All conversations around us ceased. Heads swung towards the man, faces contorting and emitting the bestial sounds of anger that only hysteria can draw forth. "What did she say?" hissed a gaunt woman with a CALS tote. The man blanched and clapped a shaking hand over the little girl's mouth. He knew as well as I that it was too late. I turned away and headed for home as the crowd closed in. The child and her father would have no need of bread now, nor flashlights.

A TV in a sports bar window caught my eye as I walked through the drizzle. News of a half dozen mass suicides across the city. The Fox 16 anchor maintained his cheer nonetheless, skillfully transitioning from brow-furrowed sorrow to amusement as he introduced a feel-good story about a knitting squirrel. And then, the weather update. "Well, it's certainly looking to be a white-knuckle night," the newsman said, flawless smile glinting in the studio lights. "Stay warm, stay safe, and stay off of those roads. Coming at us with an update from the front lines is Veronica, in Mena. How's it looking in Mena, Veronica?"

Half the screen cut to a crooked shot of a nighttime street blanketed in ice. Icicles were forming around the camera's lens. A prone blond figure in a lavender North Face windbreaker lay stiff and cold on the ground, her wireless mic clutched in one frozen hand. "No," whispered the anchor. "No. Veronica. I...I love you. NO!" His face twisted and he rose from the seat, tearing at his artificial hair. "VERONICA! God DAMN YOU, ICE STORM!" The show cut to commercial, and I continued on my way.

On my way home, I stopped by the Walgreens on Main St. for some essentials. The store seemed oddly empty at first, but in the seasonals aisle I found my answer. Of course -- eight or ten naked bodies covering themselves with cheap fleece throws manufactured in Honduran sweatshops. A clumsy shot at a spontaneous millenarian orgy had devolved into weepy recriminations and subsequent apologies, as such attempts so often do. Perhaps they'd at least reach some emotional catharsis in lieu of orgasm. They paid no attention to me. I gave them a nod and stepped carefully around a series of prone forms to get at the candles.