Snow Day

It hadn't snowed for three years. But according to the view from the living room window,
it was doing just that. It was snowing.

In fact, it had been snowing for quite some time, and while the prospect (followed
by the reality) of having a snow day was exhilirating at first, within an hour,
after which the initial thrill of the event wore off, I realized this single fact: I was snowed in.

"Believe it or not, there are stairs under there," SHE said, as we peered out onto
the front porch.


The yard was a shimmering white cloud, expanding with every hour that passed.

"Let's take a peek."

The door cracked open just enough to let tiny glittering stars dance in on a gust of wind.
We giggled, taken aback. The flakes melted on my lashes, and the wind stung my cheeks, nose
and chin, turning them red. I squinted.

"Let's shut the door now, the heater's on."

The lock clicked back into place.

Silence.

We looked at each other, not knowing what to do next.
Hadn't we been so excited upon hearing news of the impending blizzard? I'd even
created a shortcut to weather.com on my desktop browser.

"Wanna bake something?"

"Okay, like what?"

"How about brownies?"

"Nah, only Hannah makes those."

"Okay, what about a cake?"

"You know it'll be a waste -- no one eats cake in our house."

"Well fine then. What do you suggest?"

SHE shrugged.

Her indifference was maddening. Was there ever a time when she was decisive about
anything? What restaurant do you want to go to? What movie should we see?

What are you going to do with your life?

I shrugged. Even I didn't know the answer to that one.
I'd always been the more active one in our relationship. She was the river, but I
was the current. But as of late, I've been feeling a little more passive.
I think she's rubbing off on me.

Is it possible for the river to affect the current? I've always thought it the other way
around, until now.

Now. Now, where the two of us sit, in the same chair in the kitchen, taking in the
must of the old hardwood, which had absorbed all the smells of the house -- of kimchi,
spilled ice cream, pear blossom body spray, and of poodle. The wood is cold where the glass
from the window and the floor converge. But the carpet is warm.

I've always been one to observe such seemingly insignificant details. But for what use?
What could I possibly do with a knack for noticing things?

"You could be an artist," SHE suggests.

"No, I couldn't. And besides, it's you who's always doing the art around here."

"Well, you're good at languages. It's a trade-off. And you're funny."

"I used to be."

"No, you still are. You're just not comfortable with yourself anymore."

"And why would that be?"

"Maybe I'm rubbing off on you."

"Just now? After 17 years?"

SHE shrugs.

And just when I thought we were getting somewhere.

"Well?"

No reply.

"And?"

No reply.

"SO?"

No reply.

"Can you atleast explain what I am doing sitting here alone on a snowy day talking
to myself?"


Silence.


And the snow continues to fall outside...