He smiled, hearing the crunch of snow beneath his feet.
Crunch. Crunch.
The fresh snow cut a middle aged man half.
A shiver waved through his spin.
Teenage electricity switched on.
Her icy blue eyes tattooed in his.
He was cold, red, hard, then numb and pale.
She was his frostbite.
He has developed weatherproof habits.
Warm hands, warm feet, extra layers of wool,
a steady face with reasonable reserve.
The desire to roll in the snow with her, buried deep.
How he wants her coldness to permeate through his veins.
How he wants to frost her paleness with boiling blood.
How he wants to eat all of her.
Crunch. Crunch.
The Icelandic girl of his youth slipped away.
He straightened his gloves.
Electricity switched off.
A middle aged man walked on.
1st Snow
