15 comments/ 49546 views/ 11 favorites Snow Girl By: fin As in my other stories, the action in this one doesn't start for a while. If you're in a hurry, you may want to look elsewhere. The snow began while I was foaming milk for my morning coffee. It fell from a windless sky and settled in perfect narrow ridges on the bare limbs of the trees outside my apartment. By the time I had showered and dressed for work, every twig and bark-wrinkle had acquired a sparkling white outline and become soft-edged and lovely. I was already late, but I lingered by my window. The snowy street was so quiet that I could hear her heels clicking on the pavement as she passed beneath my window a few minutes later. A long, puffy down coat wrapped her from head to toe, hiding the shape of her body. Her elegant dark eyebrows were drawn tightly together, and strands of long black hair escaped from the edges of her scarf. She looked pale and freezing and achingly beautiful. She walked by most weekday mornings – on her way to work, I supposed. Some days she'd be carrying a cup of coffee, enfolding it with both hands, trying to draw a little warmth from it. Other times she'd be late and hurrying. I'd first noticed her a month earlier, right after the first big winter storm had blown in, bringing a foot of snow and a dense overcast that didn't clear for weeks. I didn't know her name or where she lived or where she was headed every morning. I just thought of her as the snow girl. The name seemed especially apt today. She moved rapidly down the silent street until she was only a grey silhouette, and then a vague, genderless shape merging into the snow-shrouded city. Snow Girl After a futile hour, something clicked in my head. I had to find her. I couldn't just leave things the way they were. But I didn't know her phone number, or where she lived, or even her last name. I dropped into the café where I'd run into her the week before, but only the regulars were there, students mostly, bent over their textbooks and laptops. I wandered around the neighborhood – she'd said that she worked two blocks away – but all the businesses in the area were copy shops or tax preparers or psychics. No costume warehouses. I tried to imagine the route she'd take to work once she passed my apartment building. She'd try to keep some sheltering buildings between her and the cold wind off the river, I reasoned. And I was right. I spotted it on the third day. Camlin Wardrobe Service was a sooty, non-descript warehouse on a side street. I only noticed it because there was a panel truck in front with the company's name on the side. The truck's back was open and a small Hispanic man was wheeling a rack hung with costumes towards it. Shannon stood on the sidewalk wrapped in a thick sweater, making notes on a clipboard. I waited for her to look up and notice me. When she finally did, the frightened look was back in her eyes. "There are times when New York seems like a very small place," I said reassuringly. I could see her deciding how to react. Finally she smiled shyly. "Give me a minute," she said. She checked the items on the rack and said something in halting Spanish to the truck driver. Then she turned to me. "Come on inside. It's too cold to stand around out here." I followed her up some steps and through a sheet-metal door. Inside was an open area with hard surfaces and movie posters on the wall. There was a receptionist's desk at one end with a girl sitting behind it. The girl wore too much eye makeup and she held a cell phone tightly to her ear. She didn't seem to register us as we walked by. "What do you do here?" I'd said the wrong thing again. Her face closed up and she answered a slightly different question than the one I'd asked: "We're doing wardrobe for an off-Broadway production of Electra right now. And there's an indie film about Jamaican immigrants that's coming up in a couple of weeks. So we're pretty busy." "Do you design then?" Her reply sounded almost angry. "No. I just handle the existing inventory. They offered me a design job right after I got here but I didn't want it." That surprised me. "Why not?" She didn't answer. She just started walking faster, her heels clicking hard on the concrete floor. I stayed a couple of steps behind her. She reached a door at the end of the corridor, opened it and waited until I'd walked through. We were in a large room with racks of clothing lining one wall and shelves of hats, shoes, feather boas, and odd-ball accessories of every variety along the other wall. There was even a stuffed parrot on one of the shelves. I pointed at it and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "For a production of Peter Pan." "Ah," I said. "Pirates." "Right. For the first few weeks I was here, all I did was sort out the various bits. You know, which shoes went with which dress? None of it was labeled. No one knew where to find anything." A costume on the rack nearest me caught my eye. I pulled it free of the rack and examined it. It looked like a full dress uniform for a barbarian warlord. "This looks heroic. Can I try it on?" She shrugged. "I guess." I looked at her quizzically. "You don't ... dress up in this stuff sometimes? You know, just for fun? She looked a little embarrassed. "Well, no. I'm not sure why, really. It's just that I'm around costumes all day ..." I looked back down at the outfit. It really was quite splendid. "Do you have a changing room?" "This is really just a warehouse. We don't do fittings here." This was getting uncomfortable. But I wasn't about to give up now – not after three days spent looking for her. And besides, how many other opportunities was I going to get to look like a Visigoth? "How about if I just use the men's room?" "Oh, sure." She pointed. "It's in the back." The men's room was the size of a phone booth. But I managed to get the jangling skirt and the breastplate organized after a while. The costume included some molded foam in the pectoral area. Apparently the designer wasn't expecting much in the way of musculature from the wearer. I adjusted the sash and looked at myself in the mirror. Heroic indeed. I stepped back into the warehouse. Shannon checked me over with a professional eye. I struck a pose and she giggled. "You're missing the shin guards." She found them and helped me strap them on. "And, of course, there's the helmet." She held it up. Apart from being plastic, it was magnificent. It was pointed at the top and had blotchy greenish paint meant to represent old copper. There was a slender nose guard and, most impressive of all, a blue peacock feather sticking out the back. Shannon placed it on my head with some ceremony. "Did Visigoths even have peacocks?" I asked. She put a finger to her lips. "Poetic license." She took a step back to gauge the overall effect. "You look very handsome." "Sure. That's because this helmet covers half my face." She rolled her eyes. "Do you have outfits for lady barbarians?" I asked. "Yeah, I think so." I gave her what I hoped was a winning smile. She hesitated. "Let me see what I can find." She checked a list on her clipboard and walked towards the back. She pulled a costume off a rack and looked at it dubiously. It was a sort of white toga with gold piping, along with various accessories – a thin gold belt, clasps, bracelets. "I don't know," she said. I stayed silent. "Oh, what the hell." She disappeared into the ladies room. Time passed; more than seemed strictly necessary for putting on a toga. I used the opportunity to poke through some of the other costumes. There was a Victorian dress suit, complete with starched collar and a long cloak. Just the thing for Jack the Ripper. Cave man outfits, space suits, ballet togs. The whole panoply of human vanity, all in neat rows, carefully labeled. I heard Shannon clear her throat behind me. I turned around and swallowed hard. The silky fabric draped over her body as if it had been designed for her. The dress clung tightly to her hips but then fell straight towards the floor, so that her legs were only suggested, visible where the cloth touched her thigh or rode up over her ankle. The neckline swept down on one side, leaving her creamy left shoulder bare, and bunched up in soft folds above her breasts. She'd tied up her dark hair in a gold circlet. The belt was tied loosely at her waist so as not to interrupt the flow of the fabric. She'd put on a bit of lipstick, too, I noticed. The overall effect was magical. I reached for her hand. She gave it to me with a quizzical look. I bowed gravely and kissed the back of her fingers. She indulged me with a smile. "I don't think they did that back then." "Poetic license," I said. We stood there looking at each other for a moment, then we both broke into giggles. "I just have to try this Texas Ranger outfit," I said, pointing at the rack. She thought for a moment. "Slave girl." I grinned. "Oh, yeah." She shot me a dirty look, but I was already heading for the men's room with the new costume. I was back a few minutes later in a sort of brick-colored tunic with an open flap at the neck and a neat red bandana tied over it. I was trying to get the Stetson adjusted to the right angle when Shannon reappeared beside me. She wore gauzy blue pants that billowed loosely from a narrow waistband and gathered in again at her ankles. Her legs and hips were visible as soft outlines beneath the wispy folds of the fabric. She wore ballet slippers with pointed toes, blue like the pants, and an enormous mock sapphire was attached to her bellybutton somehow. Her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders now. And from her bejeweled navel upwards she was completely naked. I stood in my dusty western shirt and ill-fitting hat and just stared mutely. Her breasts were round and soft and stood up high on her chest, sweeping gently upward, with dark nipples that were firm in the cool air of the drafty room. Her skin was pale, but with an almost opalescent glow. Still, with all that, it was her eyes that held me. Warm and deep and dark brown and, finally, open and unguarded. "I don't think there's a top," she said. "At least I couldn't find one ... It's still pretty disorganized around here ..." She trailed off. We stood three feet apart. I took a step towards her. She flinched, but she held my eyes. We were close enough now that I could feel her warmth, smell her perfume. I took another step. Her breasts touched the faux mother-of-pearl buttons on my tunic. She looked down at where our bodies came together then back up at me. Her eyes were huge, intoxicating. I leaned forward until our lips just touched. I felt her shiver, and her arms came up and around my neck. I held her, my hands touching the bare skin of her back, her warmth flowing into my fingers. I lost all sense of where I was. The pressure of her lips absorbed every other feeling. Her body melted into mine and I could feel my excitement grow. But nothing could distract me from that kiss. Our mouths were open now and our tongues moved against each other and everything fell away and I closed my eyes and let her softness and her heat overwhelm me. And then, abruptly, I was standing by myself in the middle of the room, blinking stupidly as if I had just woken up. The receptionist stood in the doorway to the warehouse, still holding her cell phone to her ear, utterly captivated by whatever the person at the other end of the line was saying, but still managing to speak. "Hey, Shannon? Are you back here? The Electra guys are out front. They want to talk to you." I shook my head, trying to clear it. I heard Shannon's muffled voice from somewhere behind me. "Okay. Tell them I'll be there in a minute." The receptionist looked around, non-plussed. Hearing Shannon but seeing a strange guy in a cowboy suit obviously didn't compute. "Whatever." She shrugged and headed back towards the front desk. Shannon poked her head out from behind a gorilla suit. "Is she gone?" "Yeah." Her eyes darted around. "Do you think she saw ...?" I shook my head. "I don't think so. I had my back to her, and she seems pretty oblivious generally." "Okay." "Are you coming out of there?" I asked. "Yes. I should go talk to the Electra guys. Could you ... you know ... turn around?" "Oh. Sure." I turned away and heard hangers jostling then soft running footsteps. I chanced a look over my shoulder just in time to see the sweet curve of her bare back and the billowy harem pants hugging her waist before she ducked back into the ladies room. She was out again a minute later, back in her jeans and shapeless sweater. She walked fast towards the front room. I almost had to run to catch up with her. "I should probably go," I said. She just nodded. Her pace picked up again. "Can I see you tonight?" I asked, now trailing well behind her. The question came off a bit plaintively. "No ... I've got something else." "Tomorrow?" "I don't think it's a good idea." Then she was out the door. I stopped chasing her. By the time I reached the lobby, Shannon was already talking earnestly with two artistic-looking guys in the sitting area. I nodded to the receptionist, who still had the phone snugged up against her ear. She looked right through me as I walked out of the building. Snow Girl "Hi," she said shyly. I just stood there for a moment, wanting terribly to hold her and kiss her. But I was just as desperate not to frighten her away. Finally, I said: "Hi, yourself. Can I take your coat?" She slipped it off and handed it to me. She had dressed with far more care than I had. She wore loose wool pants that flowed over her hips, reminding me of the slave girl outfit she'd worn in the costume warehouse. On top she wore a magenta leotard, cut low, her cleavage pale and soft in the dim light of my entryway. She looked down demurely and tilted her head as I stared at her. I was still at a loss for words, but it wasn't awkward. We both seemed held in a sort of spell. I took a breath. "I'm glad you could come." I hung up her coat and led her back towards the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink?" "Whatever you're having looks nice." I poured her a glass of wine while she looked around and admired my copper sauce pans and sleek small appliances. "What are you making?" I pointed at a simmering pot at the back of the stove that was fogging up the window behind it. "That's a butternut squash and apple bisque with a walnut gremolatta." She nodded, impressed. I smiled immodestly. "The main course is broiled salmon with a pomegranate glaze with a winter vegetable ragout and a gratin dauphinoise of fingerling potatoes." "That sounds lovely. Can I help with anything?" My kitchen is narrow, and when two people work there at the same time they tend to bump into each other. So having Shannon help was exactly what I wanted. "Can you separate the pomegranate seeds for me?" I handed her a piece of fruit and our fingers touched. The sensation was electric. She looked up at me and I saw that frightened look flicker in her eyes. Her hand shook a little as she took the pomegranate. "I had no idea that you lived here," she said. "I walk right by this building on my way to work most mornings." I smiled. "I know. I've noticed you going by." She said nothing. I watched her tear the pomegranate apart and start to pull out the seeds. Their deep translucent red contrasted startlingly with her pale hands. She picked up a seed between her fingers and held it up to the light. It shone like a jewel. "Some mornings I wait by the window," I said, "hoping that I'll see you. I was late to work a couple of times when you didn't come by." She didn't react to that. She just put the pomegranate seed between her front teeth and crushed it gently. The juice ran along her lips. We looked at each other. I was suddenly conscious of how close we were, only a few inches apart. I leaned nearer still and kissed her, tasting her lips and the tang of the pomegranate juice. She threw her arms around my neck and suddenly we were joined, and I was lost again in the scent of her skin and the gentle pressure of her lips and her breasts. My tongue found hers, and it was as if no time at all had passed since that afternoon in the warehouse. After a long time I let go and stepped back. Her eyes were wide and her breath came in hard gasps. "Look," are you sure?" I asked. "I remember what you said at the restaurant. About wanting someone safe." I was flattering myself. But I knew I was right. Her eyes were transparent, hiding nothing. Her face glowed, became even more beautiful. I took her hand and held it chastely. I remembered to turn the stove off before leading her back to the bedroom, but only just.