The Dog Team – Part 2: Aurora

"Yes," said Owen. "Tell me again."

"I would like to kiss you."

"Yes."

The kiss was cold-nosed and warm-mouthed. Dmitri's gloved hands framed Owen's face; Owen's camera hung forgotten on its strap. Around them, the huskies dozed in their straw. The stove glowed through the cabin window. Above the ridgeline, a faint green glow began to ripple.

"Look up," murmured Dmitri.

Owen did, and gasped. The aurora poured across the sky in great rippling curtains of green and violet, brighter every minute, reflected on the frozen river like a second sky. They stood wrapped in each other's parkas, breath steaming, while the lights danced and the dogs lifted their noses and sang.

"I've photographed it a hundred times," said Dmitri, voice low. "I never needed to stay for the end. Tonight I want to see all of it."

"With me?"

"With you."

Hours later, frozen to the knees, they stumbled back into the cabin laughing. The stove was a red eye in the dark. Dmitri built it up, and the room filled with the smell of woodsmoke and spruce. They stripped off boots, parkas, thick sweaters, in a warm unhurried pile, and under the heaviest quilt in the Yukon they found each other's skin at last. Cold fingers warmed. Mouths found necks and shoulders. Breath came slowly, then quicker, then slowly again, and the night stretched like the river.

In the morning, sun on the snow was blinding. Owen woke to the sound of eight dogs complaining loudly about breakfast. Dmitri was in the doorway in his long underwear, sheepish and grinning.

"They have no sense of timing."

"They're right. I'm starving." Owen sat up, rumpled. "My assignment ends Friday."

"The next team of guests arrives Saturday." Dmitri held out a mug. "I will need a photographer. Permanently, if you were ever in the mood."

Owen looked at the dogs, the river, the man. "Hike," he said.

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