Bohemia Village Voice  Bohemia Village Voice

For bohemians everywhere

Catriona Dennis

Snow Angel

He found her lying in the snow. She looked like a snow angel, with arms flung out to either side and legs stretched in front.
Her feet were bare and her hair a blonde so pale it was almost white. Her dress was the colour of the drift; the only feature to distinguish her was the peach of her skin and the sky-blue irises of her eyes, which snapped open as he approached. She blinked, snowflakes glittering on her eyelashes, and rose off the ground in a cascade of white, powder falling from her clothes and hair.
He could only stare. She looked frightened as a deer in headlights but he faltered as, indistinct against the snow, two symmetrical shapes jutted out of the girl’s back; wings. His mouth dropped open.
Shivering, the creature folded thin arms, the towering white shapes bending to shield her from the falling sleet, and looked at him with widening eyes. It took him a while to form his lips into speech and even then it was muffled by the frosty air.
“You must be cold. Come back to my house. I’ll make tea.”
. . .
The angel seemed out of place in his living room. Her wings were at an awkward angle to allow her to sit on the couch and an old rug had been placed over her slender legs to warm her. Around her neck was a thick scarf that dwarfed her, ending in folds on the carpet. She still wore her white dress and in the lights of the house it sparkled, while her milky skin had taken on a dusky glow in the light.
He sat beside her, a mug of tea clutched in his hands, eyes on the wall opposite.
“I guess we could put on TV,” he said to break the silence.
She raised an eyebrow, shrugging her shoulders in incomprehension.
“Game of scrabble?” he suggested.
Her laugh was light as breathing.
“Guess not.”
There was silence. He looked at the girl, then quickly back at his lap. She glanced at him from under long lashes so their eyes met briefly before they both looked away.
“Are you hungry?” he asked awkwardly.
She shook her head.
“It’s getting late.”
A nod.
“Guess you’re staying here for the night.”
She smiled and he got up from the couch.
“You can have my bed.”
Snaking an arm out, she pulled him back beside her. He remained inert as she moved on the couch, her cream-coloured wings enveloping the two of them in a cocoon. He could feel the roughness of the scarf and the smoothness of her flesh against his, as well as a feathery softness that could only be her wings. She was warm and her skin smelt like fresh rain and peppermint.
“Guess we could sleep here,” he murmured.
. . .
Morning brought frost. He awoke on the couch, cold, encircled by loose snowy feathers, in a silent house.
Propping himself up on an elbow, he picked up a feather, afraid it might disintegrate in his hand. He gazed at it, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips although the space beside him was now empty. He sighed heavily.
Across the room, someone cleared their throat.
A girl was standing in the doorway to the room. She had palest blonde hair and clear blue eyes; her figure was slender, and wingless. He could only stare at her, open-mouthed as when they had first met.
She smiled and her voice was soft, like falling snow. “You look cold. Come back to my house. I’ll make tea.”
. . .

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