“We were together, I have forgotten the rest.”
~ Walt Whitman ~
Her smile is an upside-down parachute as she falls through the dusky twilit sky, drifting past bare branches, frosted windows, and colored lights.
The wind catches her up and sweeps her across the snow-slick street, through bow-bedecked cedar wreaths, and over the tops of brightly colored hats.
As she swirls above the park, a brass band strikes up a holiday tune and a crowd gathers around the makeshift platform. While the song’s final refrain hangs in the crisp December air, a city official unveils the new bronze statue overlooking the ice rink.
When a collective cheer rises from the crowd and the sculptor’s mouth curves with creative satisfaction, she descends, sliding across his lower lip, drawing out the moment, absorbing every sensation in hopes of imprinting it on her memory—the soft warmth of his lip, the rough exhale of his breath, the sweet caress of his tongue.
And then it is over, and she is melting, dripping off his mouth and plummeting to the ground. It doesn’t hurt, and she isn’t scared. She’s done it—melting, not kissing—thousands of times in her life. Falling, freezing, melting, and evaporating. She’ll do it again tomorrow and every day that follows.
But as she splashes into the cold, damp ground, a spark shoots through her and something flickers to life. Her vision skews and she stumbles. But how can that be? She doesn’t have legs.
A hand catches her elbow and a masculine voice says, “My apologies, ma’am. I—oh! It’s you!”
His voice is like a melody, like wind through cedars or a brook over pebbles, and her ears drink it in.
She should reply but how? Mouths are a mystery to her. If she opens her lips, will the words in her head rush out like a river?
Still holding her by the arm, he says “Here, take my coat. You must be freezing in that lightweight sweater.”
His warmth and scent envelop her as he wraps her in the heavy wool, and his gray eyes are piercing as they evaluate her, as if comparing her—but to what?
She looks away, unsure of herself, of what is happening, of how long it will last.
He lifts a gloved hand toward the statue and says, “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. It’s just that you look so much like her.”
She glances at the beautiful bronze figure and touches her own face, wondering if it’s true.
It’s only one word, but she manages to make it audible. “Skate.”
His elegant face dissolves into a boyish grin and taking her hand, he heads to the skate rental booth.
The gentleman behind the counter smiles and says, “What size, Miss? Seven, right?”
She nods only because she has no answer and as the sculptor crouches to lace her feet into the skates, it appears seven is indeed correct. After lacing his own skates, he rises, tucks her hand in the crook of his arm, and leads her onto the ice. He puts an arm around her waist and they slide off across the rink.
Steadied by his bulk and proximity, she allows herself to experience the rushing of wind in her hair, the sting of crisp winter air against her cheeks, and the sweet tang of apple cider in her nose.
A tangle of thoughts and feelings bubble up and spill out her mouth in a burst of laughter, and there’s an emotion lodged in her chest, something warm and heavy and unfamiliar.
When the sun begins its descent, he leans close and says, “Are you ready for cider or hot chocolate?”
She smiles and manages a second word. “Lovely.”
He seats her in the shelter of the gazebo and goes to get their drinks.
When she is alone, a pale visage appears to her. “Mr. Frost sent me to advise you that you must relinquish your magic by midnight if you wish to retain this body.”
Until now, she’d floated through life, a lacy little snowflake, her life dependent on magic and the camaraderie of fellow elements.
She’d cashed in every credit to make her wish for a holiday kiss from the sculptor come true, but Jack had taken it upon himself to change the outcome and turned her into a human. Now he was offering her permanent status as a mortal. Should she accept it?
But before she can respond, the messenger disappears as the sculptor returns.
He sets the warm cups on the railing and sits beside her. “My behavior today has been—uncharacteristic. It’s just that I feel as though the face I dreamed of and created, that knowing smile, those laughing eyes, have come to life in you. Forgive me. I haven’t even asked your name.”
“Crystal,” she says, pleased to know this answer.
He takes her hand again, as he has all afternoon, as if he covets her attention and touch, as if such familiarity is natural. “Seeing as I appear incapable of banishing this schoolboy behavior in your company, I’m impulsively inviting you to attend the museum gala this evening as my guest. Please say yes, Crystal!”
She looks at him and the heaviness in her chest becomes something with claws, as though she can’t breathe, can’t get air.
She reaches for his face, for his strong jaw, for his beautiful mouth, the thing that brought her here, to this man, to this moment.
Kissing him is like falling, like whirling through secret galaxies, like dancing in the thumbprints of the gods. Surely this magic, mouths praying one to another, exceeds her elemental power and is worth the price of her immortality.
“Stay,” she says against his lips. “I’ll stay, Ezra.”
He kisses her nose. “You know my name?”
She nods, but how can she explain it? She’s been falling for him all her life, in a thousand rains and sleets, in rivers and oceans, in snowstorms and frosty windows.