Silent Snow

It was a warm December day, no snow had fallen in weeks, the lawns and streets around the city were bare, not at all like a typical winter. He wanted to read a book, to lose himself in its words, and maybe to find himself in their meaning.

He hopped in his car and went to the used bookshop downtown, it was an out-of-the-way place, and he didn't want to fight with the crowds at the mega-store down the street.

It was a quaint shop, a little pretentious he thought, with its Victorian decor, but it had a comfortable feel and friendly service, and books you just could not find at the chain stores.

He entered the shop and went immediately to the classic fiction section: old favorites, that he could trust. He knew what to expect from Faulkner's meticulous style, or Hemingway's bare prose, they were perfect for escape.

He was also looking for a story. One he hadn't read since he was young, a tale of a young boy lost in a world of snow. He wasn't sure he knew why he wanted to read, "Silent Snow, Secret Snow" but it kept coming up in his thoughts, and so he wanted to read it again and see why.

While looking, he noticed a someone in the romance section, tall, thin, and attractive, a woman he knew. He was surprised, for he did not expect to see her at this bookstore, and by the way she quickly averted her eyes and hurried around the corner of the aisle, she had not expected to see him either.

He could have left it there, just walked out of the store, done the thing he knew was the right thing to do. But there was a voice inside him, that he struggled to ignore, that told him, to follow her, make it impossible for her to ignore him, and so he did.

He watched as she quickly walked to the check-out, and he then hurried to the exit, and when outside, he sat down on a bench to the side of the store, but one that would be conspicuous, that she would not be able to ignore. He untied his shoe, an act that embarrassed him, made him feel small, but he needed an excuse, and he would wait, shoestrings in hand, making believe tying them.

She walked out the door, she thought she was safe, she lost her guard and looked around, and there he was, looking up at her.

"Oh...Hi Paul," she uttered, her tone too high, too artificial.

Paul, on cue, looked up, "Oh hello Joan, what a surprise to see toy here. I was just in the store looking around for a collection of Conrad Aiken's stories, there was one I wanted to read again, you've may have heard of it, "Silent Snow, Secret Snow."

"No, never heard of it," she said and smiled uneasily. She then held up the store bag she carried, "But you know me, always reading trashy romances."

He winced at her words. He remembered many discussions they'd had in the past, How he'd chided her reading choices, always offering her one of his books: Dostoevsky, Proust, Henry James. He always got carried away, became slightly sarcastic, condescending, an odd thing to do with someone he loved more than anyone else. He'd feel bad later, but then it was too late. She'd taken his words, and stored them away, kept them as evidence that he did not love her...at least not in the way she needed to be loved.

He looked at her, she saw his uneasiness at her words, but it did not please her, she was surprised.

He stammered for a moment, "I ah, I...oh, I'm sorry, I was an idiot then, many times, you have a right to like what you like, I've no idea why I always insisted that you should read what I like, it was very egotistical of me. I'm sorry."

He, of course, knew exactly why he did those things, but he could not tell her that he always tried to destroy the things he loved. It was easier on him to to be seen as sophomoric, or arrogant, and it kept the truth hidden from himself, as much as was possible anyway.

"That's okay," she replied. "We all say things. There were lots of things going on then, I don't hold those things against you."

Which of course was a lie, because that broad term, those things meant everything that had happened between them: his lack of ambition, his not tasking her to marry him, even after three years together, as well as those vain insecurities, that extended beyond books.

He looked at her and half-smiled, "So, you're good? I mean, you doing ok?"
"Yes, fine" she replied, then sensing that he wanted more, "I'm working over at the DMV now, just got promoted to Regional Secretary, life is good, you?"

He said the right words, choked back the ones that he most wanted to say, "That is good, I am glad you are happy and doing well. As for me, you know, still working at the department store, still doing Bookkeeping, same old same old."

He looked down, he did not want to see her face, see how she reacted to those words, but he would have been safe, for she gave no sign, no hint of past regrets,
"That is good then, and you look good, nice and healthy, you've lost weight."

He had, something which he was never able to do when they were together, and he wondered if she now would add that too against him, but her face showed no sign of it.

"Well, I have to be going" she said, smiling perfunctorily, And he was caught between extremes...wanting her to stay, and wanting her to go, but she had to go, he knew that.

She nodded, "Good to see you again Paul" and he made himself believe her. He smiled, and wanted to say something, many things but he knew spoken words no longer mattered. They had become relics of the past, like hopes, dreams and love. And as he watched her walk away, snow began to fall. He sat back down on the bench, and stayed there long after she had gone, watching the snow blanket the ground and coat the trees with thin layers of quiet. He felt the snow melt on his face, but he no longer heard or saw anything other than the falling of the silent snow.