“What is snow like?” you ask, your voice dreamy yet eager. You’re a summer child; you’ve never known snow, not truly. To you, it is as whimsical and harmless as the white fluff inside a snow globe.
I decide not to ruin this romantic notion for you. “It’s soft, and cold. And very pretty,“ I say. You frown, far from appeased. “It’s… difficult to explain. Ah, here.”
Feeling bold, I take your hands and hold them. “Close your eyes,” I command, and you do. “Now, imagine. It’s cold outside, but bright. The sky is perfectly white. Falling from it are specks that blend in so seamlessly with the horizon that you can’t even see them when you look straight up. But that’s not how you notice the snowflakes.”
“How do I notice them?”
“You feel them. When you tilt your head up, something soft lands on your cheek. It feels like this.”
I take a few seconds to appreciate this moment: you, so still, so close, your hands in mine as you wait with your eyes closed. Holding my breath, I flutter my lashes across your cheek. You instantly laugh, and your face turns a brilliant pink. I laugh too, heart fluttering, and I’m sure my blush is twice as bright.
“Snow feels like a butterfly kiss?” you ask, one brow raised skeptically. You haven’t tried to pull your hands from mine, so I squeeze them more tightly.
“No, not really,” I confess. My ploy has become obvious. I never was very clever. “And neither does this one.”
I don’t think you mind that my kiss is nothing like snow.