The Reykjavik Greenhouse – Part 2: Northern Lights

The aurora arrived on a Tuesday in January, with no warning but the sudden hush of the wind. Gunnar came out of the packing shed and stopped dead. "Anders. Outside. Now."

They stood on the frozen path in hats and borrowed boots while the whole sky above the lava field rippled green, a slow curtain of light folding itself across the stars. Anders took Gunnar's mitten in his own. Neither of them said a word.

"I have seen it many times," said Gunnar, finally. "It was never better than tonight."

"It's the company."

"It is the company," Gunnar agreed seriously.

Their breath hung in the cold air. Anders turned and kissed him, mitten against mitten, noses numb, mouths warm. Then they were laughing, and then they were hurrying back into the glass hall where the heat wrapped around them like a blanket.

There was a small room off the packing shed, with a narrow bed and a window that opened onto the sky. Gunnar looked at the floor. "It is not much. But the lights are good from here."

"It's perfect. Are you sure?"

"Very sure." He took off his hat at last, and his pale hair stood up in a halo. Anders ran his fingers through it and thought he might never stop.

Coats, scarves and sweaters came off in a long, laughing heap. The bed was narrow, so they had to be close. The green light moved over bare shoulders and warm skin, and they learned each other quietly, thoroughly, with the greenhouse humming beyond the wall and the aurora pouring silently through the glass.

In the morning, the vines were heavy and red. Gunnar made coffee and said fourteen words in a row.

"I would like you to stay after the winter," he said. "The summer is beautiful. It is light all night."

"I've never grown anything in the light all night," said Anders, smiling. "I'd love to try."

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