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  • Writer's pictureT.I. Lowe

Until I Don't Snow Day Scene

Crossing his arms, Asher says in that always deep authoritative tone, “Nice cap.”

“I’m in the know on where to find these babies. I could hook you up.” My head bobs, causing the fuzzy, hot-pink ball on top of the toboggan hat to bounce around.

“I don’t wear children’s apparel. I’m good.” His lip twitches, giving away his amusement. I am so on to him and that lip twitch!

“Fine. Go put on your boring old man cap and come play in the snow with me.”

“Do I look like I’d play in snow?” He’s one strong tower of a man, looking none too playful.

I shrug and lie, “Sure.”

“I don’t.”

I huff, sending a cloud to fill the air between us. “Fine. Stay on the porch sulking for all I care. I’ll just enjoy this beautiful snow without you.” Turning on my heels, I hurry down the steps.

The satisfying crunch of my boots sinking into the lush snow does wonders for my mood. Something about the languid flakes whirling around while being emerged in the vast white bounty of icy beauty just lifts my spirits. Giddiness takes over as I begin working on my first snowball.

“What are you doing?” he grumbles from his post on the porch.

Without stopping my task, I say, “Building a snowman. Throw a coat on and come help me.”

“I don’t build snowmen.”

I look up with a glare and point my gloved finger at him. “There’s that ugly word again. I can’t believe you would use such vulgar language in front of a lady.” I bat my eyelashes and clutch my chest in offense before bending back down and continuing to roll the ball around to collect more snow.

“You’re not packing it enough.”

The nerve of him!

“Look, buddy, if you’re not gonna help then I suggest you keep your comments to yourself.” Pausing, I glance up. “Better yet, why don’t you just mosey your brooding behind back inside.”

He says nothing, just leans on the porch railing and keeps watching me.

A side of the large snowball shears off, so I try angling my body to hide it while trying to pack more snow into the void. Does he have to always be right? After all three balls are properly rolled and packed, I’m struck with another problem. I can’t stack them! Every time I try lifting the medium sized ball, chunks fall off.

A loud grumble sounds from behind me before feet begin pounding down the steps. I almost hope his brawny-self slips and he busts his grouchy butt.

“Move over,” Asher orders while buttoning his thick gray coat.

I do as he says and watch on as he stacks the snowballs with little effort to form a five-foot-tall snowman. I pull off the extra scarf and hand it over to Asher to wrap around our snowman’s neck while fishing out the black buttons and carrot to form our new friend’s face. I’m careful to form the mouth in a wide grin with hopes he will be a good example to my moody snow partner. I’m beyond thrilled as we study over our handiwork with clouds of our breaths puffing out into the night. It’s magical to be in the midst of a soft snowstorm, and oddly romantic to be enveloped in it with him.

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