Winter has come to my small, chilly corner of the world. The air hangs just below zero and small flakes whip against the icy ground. Already it looks like someone has taken to dusting the earth with icing sugar and the snow is slowly building up in the curves of branches and heaps upon my windowsill
It is a day for mugs of tea, soft music (I recommend Of Monsters and Men) and wearing your thickest socks. As much I wish never to leave the small cocoon I have created in my room, I have duties and things to do. It seems in many of my posts I am wishing to stay inside all day(introvert personality anyone?) but in all honesty, I love the bitter cold. The cold that causes you to put every layer you own on, that calls for hats, fleecy gloves and lets you get good use out of that winter coat. It is the half-hearted cold I cannot stand, the rain-soaked damp cold. But today is a day I could write fiction, read all my books and, reluctantly, do my essay reading.
So in the spirit of making the most of being indoors and having the internet at my fingertips, I have written a small piece, fictional, of a day I hope one day might happen. A tale of books, cold weather and warm feelings. ENJOY:
New York, December.
Your soft breath creates mists in the frozen air. I pull you closer to fight off the biting chill that has swept the city. Your gloved hand on the small of my back. My aversion to cold has never stopped our desire to roam the streets of this jungle, ducking into cafes or dusty bookshops when it is simply too much. Your steps quicken as you meander around the vendors and the hawkers. You laugh as I leap, light-footed, across a glass puddle, the wind teasing at my hair. You push it back from my cheek, a smile playing around your eyes. My nose is numb, my hands are stiff. We scurry on through the crowds. Your gloved hand continues to guide me. We are explores. There is electricity; the city is full of it. Your touch on my arm is full of it. A street-vender pushes fake Gucci in our path, claiming a good price. Together we wrestle away from him, but the irony not lost on you. It is never lost on you. I gather my scarf around my face, adoring you. We have no set destination. We are adrift and content to be shipwrecked in whatever place catches our eye. A brightly painted book store does just that, with red awnings and promise of $2 books. I pull you in, a bell announcing our landing. The warmth hits my frozen face. I breathe a sigh, welcoming it. The flick of your eyes as you take in the towering rows of books upon books. I wander through the tall selves, a city of stories with its own kind of skyscrapers. I let my hands drift over covers, picking up the occasional one, some boasting best seller, others old favourites. I am fully aware of your presence behind me, your footsteps moving in tune with mine. You pick up novels here and there, glancing at me for approval. The flick of your wrist as you turn it over, admiring the fine detailing on the front. I make a comment about judging them by their covers. Your laugh makes my heart quicken and I weave deeper into the streets of bookshelves. You follow. You sweep me around at the waist, so i look into those deep, endless eyes. A kiss. Hidden from the world and seen only by the great poets. Surely if they were to comment they would notice the way your hand traces my face and finishes where my neck begins. What a tender yet powerful motion they would observe. They would point out the way my hands are encircled around your waist. They would agree about the way we fit perfectly. They would say perhaps it was not the most passionate kiss, nor the most romantic. But it is our stolen moment.
Wrap up warm,