especially when it rains, I inevitably think about English, Fall Semester of senior year…

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Snowflakes

He had heard her voice, which had echoed obnoxiously through the air and hung there like some dead weight that distracted him from his music and made him turn away from the piano to look out the window. He did not understand her excitement (It was snowing, she had shouted)—why was she so happy? It was not right, he thought; it was not supposed to be snowing, but even as he told himself this he could see the thin blanket of white in front of him and make out the tiny specks falling in the distance. He had not noticed them before. They seemed to hover in the air and blend seamlessly with the monotonous gray clouds behind them, but he could not see where they came from, even when he pushed his forehead against the chilly window pane and squinted as hard as he could. Were they the same white as the ivory keys of the piano? It made him dizzy. The screen got in his way. How funny, he thought, that one didn’t notice it when gazing casually out the window, but how big of a nuisance it became when one leaned in for a closer look. He might have been able to see the individual flakes if he stared hard enough, but he didn’t care. All he had wanted was to continue playing, to close his eyes and rest his hands on the cool, smooth surface of the ivory. He had finally come up with the perfect melody, which had nagged at his brain the whole morning, waiting to be plucked like an exceedingly beautiful flower from a rather ordinary field of grass; a rose perhaps—no, an iris, he decided, for roses were far too cliché. He was in the process of writing it all down (oh, how quickly the pen had dashed across the page, filling up the bars and lines; how excited he had been!) when her voice shattered the silence and broke his rhythm. He had lost his concentration and along with it, the music. He could feel it slipping away from him like a balloon from a toddler’s chubby fingers, and try as he might to stretch his mind to reach it, he knew it was too late; it was gone and everything was once again empty, silent. She had stopped shouting, he noted as he watched her with a feeling of disgust. She was doing some type of ridiculous dance, twirling around in a dress that she should not have been wearing in this kind of weather and tilting her head up at an awkward angle as if she were trying to catch the snowflakes with her mouth. The sight of her repulsed him to no end. She had taken his music away from him and was now making a mockery of it—dancing to no tune in particular. Her impulsiveness annoyed him; he hated her for it, for how could she be twirling about and smiling while he suffered inside, alone? It was her, he thought, and the snow, for he suddenly remembered how much he hated the snow; how he despised its coldness, its impurity—there was no such thing as white snow—how it fell onto the pavement along with the dirt, sand, and rocks, creating thick mounds of brown slush that splashed onto his bright yellow boots and new jeans. He could care less about making snowmen, snow angels, and having snowball fights, for was there anything else that one could do with snow other than gather it up and throw it around? A useless commodity really, one that the world would be better off without, for what good did it do other than cause road problems and give kids a false sense of hope that school may be cancelled the next morning—no, it could not be depended on. But why was it here, he wanted to ask. The leaves had not yet fallen, and the meteorologist had made no mention of it (and he listened to the radio everyday after dinner), so where was the snow coming from? It didn’t make any sense to him; someone must have put it there, he told himself stubbornly.

She caught him out of the corner of her eye as she pirouetted gracefully across the terrace, his sullen eyes at once making her feel extremely self-conscious. Why must he stare at her like that; did he not know that it made her feel uncomfortable? But determined to show him that it did not upset her, she continued to twirl unfazed, all the while trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue—she kept missing. The music had stopped. Was that why she felt so self-aware? But a part of her convinced herself that she was better off without it, for her friends had told her how great of a musician he was; what talent he had shown at the Conservatory; the promising future that lay ahead of him (but what did her friends know about music?), and yet for all her own opinion was worth, she was not in the slightest impressed with his work; for in the week that they had been together, he had barely touched the piano at all, and when he did, he scarcely played two or three chords before shaking his head and stopping abruptly. Mostly during the day he would pace around the house and mutter to himself indignantly, sometimes pausing here and there on the staircase and occasionally looking far off into the distance at something that she could not discern. He ignored her for the most part expect to grunt infrequently at her attempts to ask him how he was doing, and after awhile, she gave up and returned his silence. Indeed, they had an unspoken agreement that seemed to work well for both of them: she would get the groceries and he would do the cooking, which she found mediocre at best (she would have done a better job, she felt, except that she valued this idea of sharing responsibility), and he would wash the dishes after dinner while she dried, with neither of them uttering a sound to each other. When she saw him rushing frantically down the stairs earlier this morning with a pen in his hand—muttering under his breath, as usual—she could not help but feel a bit of excitement for him, for she assumed that he had finally had his moment of epiphany and would amaze her with a composition that rivaled even Beethoven’s Fifth (or was it the Ninth, she had forgotten), but she had been sorely disappointed. It was that attitude of his, she thought, that not only made him sour but his music sour. He must have been a sickly child, she concluded, who probably got pneumonia as a child and whose mother had kept him indoors for most of his life for fear of him becoming ill again—that was why he never went outdoors. How silly, she thought, for how could one get stronger if one always relied on the protection of others? She spoke from experience, for she had grown up not knowing who her mother was (and now her father was gone, too); she had learned to take care of herself—had taught herself how to read and put herself in school. No one had looked out for her, she thought bitterly; no one had protected her or shielded her from the world, nor had anyone prepared her for the sudden death of her father that had left her an orphan. She was alone in the world but she had pushed herself to go on, to live—by the sheer force of her own will—and she had become stronger because of it. At once she felt guilty for ever thinking of ridiculing him, for she knew it was wrong for her to impose her life onto others, to expect them to sympathize with her situation and pity her, maybe even admire her for her strength. No, she thought, there was an inexplicable sadness in his eyes that she had failed to notice. He too grew up isolated and alone in this world, for no one really understood him; they praised his work but did not truly know him. How ironic, she reflected, to be admired by so many and yet known by so few. But I know him, she thought, even though in the week we have been together at this house we have not spoken to each other save for a few platitudes here and there—I can see it in his eyes. And catching a glimpse of his head pressed against the window pane as she continued to twirl around, she realized, quite suddenly, that she wanted him.

He was not sure what had compelled him to open the front door, for he hated the snow and hated her in turn for loving it so much; but he had nonetheless pushed it open, and now it shut with a loud creak that startled him—he had forgotten all about the creak, which had frightened him when he first arrived at this place in the middle of nowhere a week before. He had not opened the door since; but she had, of course. How many times had she opened it since she arrived? Ten, maybe even twenty times (he had lost count), but he was sure that it had not creaked when she opened it, or maybe he was so absorbed in his music that he had not noticed—yes, he thought, that must be it. So what had brought him outside? It certainly wasn’t the snow; that he knew for sure. It must have been her then, she who annoyed him with her cheerfulness and capriciousness (he hated things that were unpredictable); who went around and opened doors and windows (he needed some fresh air, she had said); who came into his room and flung back the curtains (how dare she!) with a sweep of her arm, letting the light spill into the room and blinding him. Yes, it must have been her, for he had noticed something in her eyes as she spun round and round on the snow covered terrace that reminded him of a teardrop, or perhaps it had been the light reflecting off her eyes at just the right angle to create such an effect; he wasn’t sure, but the sight had moved him because she seemed so sad despite the fact that she had her arms outstretched and her tongue sticking out ridiculously trying to catch the snowflakes. She would not be able to get them all, try as she may—it was impossible. She tried too hard, he thought; she wanted people to acknowledge her strength and independence as much as she wanted to catch the snowflakes on her tongue, but in reality, she was alone and hurting inside. All women are like that, he frowned (for he suddenly thought of his mother); they always put on a smile but never told you how they really felt, which was yet another reason why he felt annoyed with her, for she deceived him with her smiles and small talk at the dinner table when all he wanted was the truth, plain as black and white like the notes on a musical score—he could read that, he thought.

She had suddenly stopped dancing. No, to be precise, she had stopped dancing when she saw him disappear out of the corner of her eye (where had he gone?), but now that he was standing in front of her in his bright yellow boots and new jeans, she did not know what to do or say to him. Something about his presence comforted her (had he heard her cry out?) and made her uncomfortable at the same time. He stood there half slouching (he was quite tall, she thought) with a slight frown on his face, his eyes fixed on hers. What big ears he had! She could not help looking at them and his round cheeks—like a blowfish, she mused, suppressing a giggle. But the sunlight made her squint and she decided to stop staring—it was rude, after all.

What was she laughing at? But at once he felt some change (he was sure she felt it too) come over him, as if something had altered his vision (was it the light?); and he suddenly did not know why he had felt so annoyed; looking at her, that ridiculous half-grin on her face—he could not help but smile. She had pretty eyes, he noticed; they were amber and reminded him of the leaves changing color…how had he missed it before? The screen had obscured his vision, he thought, but now, standing on the terrace, he could see clearly the trees and their glistening yellow and orange leaves (oh, how lovely they looked!); it calmed him—how they rustled softly in the wind but remained on the branches despite the snow—no, it was not yet their time to fall.

She liked him, she thought, suddenly; she liked his smile. She liked his awkwardness, his big ears and his round cheeks; she liked the way the snow crunched beneath his yellow boots; she even liked his music, which, she decided, was not that bad after all. They would get along in the end, she thought, as she felt a solitary snowflake hit her tongue, followed by second, and then a third; they melted on her tongue and created a tingling sensation that made her laugh—she felt satisfied.

The clouds seemed to evaporate as he watched her laughing (it made him happy), and he became aware of the brightening light behind her, which illuminated her wavy brown hair and the orange and yellow leaves; the snowflakes suddenly appeared to him as a thousand different crystals, reflecting and amplifying the light like a million tiny mirrors, turning everything golden. He turned his head slightly and her eyes connected with his for a fleeting second; and in that moment, he knew that they had shared something deeply intimate, something that he would remember for the rest of his life. And as they stared together at the sunlight emerging from the clouds, wrapped in its sea of goldenness and warmth, a singular tune passed through his head; and he knew in that very instant that it was complete.