As he rowed across the lake, he replayed this morning’s scene: the green, stinking, meat on the counter-top, the wide-open windows in the background, letting in no breeze at all in the misplaced heatwave. And her, in the foreground, mouth newly reddened with lipstick, palms out in refusal of the task, the chapping almost vanished now; his feet stood in a puddle of water from the melted contents of their impractical ice box.

Henrik’s thoughts had been like this since childhood: tableaus of places, and people, with fixed half-opened mouths the words seemed to drip from, and items placed exactly here or there, even if that made no sense.

Anne-Marie sometimes lowered her voice when they argued, telling him for the third time that he hadn’t remembered it right, whatever it was, whether it was how long he had left her alone with the children that winter, or how much whiskey he had drunk that dinnertime. But Henrik only had the power to recall those events in that first, set way, and Anne-Marie had no power over anything. Yet, gradually the frozen scenes had been thawing, revealing objects and people and new feelings that moved. He worried he would one day drown in all these loosened moments.

The causeway had been underwater now for two weeks, something that would not normally happen until August. Henrik stopped for a few minutes to dip his hands in the cold lake, washing the smell of the meat from his fingers, until only the ghost of her perfumed moisturizer remained. Human sized icebergs floated around the boat; Henrik’s hands in the water looked like they might be two such hunks of frozen flotsam, refusing to melt.

At the Juergen town icehouse, Henrik wrapped his dinghy’s worn rope around the pole, pulled himself up onto the platform and worked his old, rusted key into an old, rusted keyhole. His fingers cracked open, oozing a thinned blood, which he intuitively sucked, leaving a little red on his lips. He wished it was her lipstick.

Once inside, he moved slowly down, down, descending into a darkness that was illuminated only by an unreliable flashlight inherited from his father.

Henrik knew his son wouldn’t live this life, wouldn’t take on this torch from his own father. Young men like Tomas wanted easier work that paid more; they would be the generation who laughed at the old ways. Henrik came from men who lived a life reliant on wintertime, who worked under the heavy grey crust of the lake, forcing their teenage sons to pass hot summers dragging a cart of melting ice blocks between neighbourhoods, hoping sunbathing housewives weren’t already drinking iced tea fresh out of the refrigerator.

At the bottom of the stairs, Henrik shone a dim light onto what should have been a six-month supply for the town, noticing how, through gaps in the straw designed to insulate it, the melting ice glistened a little, an ancient creature weeping.

Not so long ago, Anne-Marie would have been with him, sweeping up straw, her hair tied up in a scarf, little strands of blond coming loose. Other times, she might direct the old flashlight at the mound while Henrik hacked at the ice with an axe, ready to wrap parts of it in paper and take it back to the town. They would laugh down here, struggling with the heavy cargo in the darkness until they collapsed into the boat and floated back across the lake towards land. He always used to say that they belonged to the ice. Now she belonged to the heat; maybe she always did.

There was more straw on the floor than Henrik had ever seen. The cold water was already deep enough to submerge his feet. He took the broom in the bleeding hand and started to sweep.

Another memory melted around him: Anne-Marie stood in front of a rounded, pink refrigerator, holding the door open, letting the cool air land lightly on her perfectly made-up face. She was wearing a dress nipped in at the waist, her golden hair curled up at her shoulders. But, no, that wasn’t it. The real scene was Anne-Marie in the street last month, looking at the new General Electric billboard above Main Street, her dark blond hair pulled back into a practical bun, her hands resting in the pockets of her old dungaree trousers, feet turned inward.

Henrik now saw himself too, standing just behind her, blurred out, something peripheral. The advertisement knew he was there but had his wife as its focus: seducing her, letting her see how smooth a lady’s hands, how red her lips, could be, promising her she would never have to handle spoilt meat again. He saw her chest move, heard her sigh.

Henrik couldn’t know what his wife was thinking, whether she wanted to be that woman, or own that refrigerator, or try that dress on, but she hadn’t been his Anne-Marie since then. What if he left the icehouse now, let it all melt, rowed back to land, pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips on hers, hard, passionate, to reclaim her?

The flashlight flickered for a final time and switched off.

In the blackness, Henrik pushed the broom down onto the ground, dragging thick, sturdy bristles back and forth across the ancient floor, turning the melted ice and loose straw into waves that moved out and then beat back against him. Each time he got it away from him, the water returned, rising. Still, he swept.