Snow Girl

After a futile hour, something clicked in my head. I had to find her. I couldn't just leave things the way they were. But I didn't know her phone number, or where she lived, or even her last name. I dropped into the café where I'd run into her the week before, but only the regulars were there, students mostly, bent over their textbooks and laptops. I wandered around the neighborhood – she'd said that she worked two blocks away – but all the businesses in the area were copy shops or tax preparers or psychics. No costume warehouses.

I tried to imagine the route she'd take to work once she passed my apartment building. She'd try to keep some sheltering buildings between her and the cold wind off the river, I reasoned. And I was right. I spotted it on the third day. Camlin Wardrobe Service was a sooty, non-descript warehouse on a side street. I only noticed it because there was a panel truck in front with the company's name on the side. The truck's back was open and a small Hispanic man was wheeling a rack hung with costumes towards it. Shannon stood on the sidewalk wrapped in a thick sweater, making notes on a clipboard.

I waited for her to look up and notice me. When she finally did, the frightened look was back in her eyes.

"There are times when New York seems like a very small place," I said reassuringly.

I could see her deciding how to react. Finally she smiled shyly. "Give me a minute," she said.

She checked the items on the rack and said something in halting Spanish to the truck driver. Then she turned to me. "Come on inside. It's too cold to stand around out here."

I followed her up some steps and through a sheet-metal door. Inside was an open area with hard surfaces and movie posters on the wall. There was a receptionist's desk at one end with a girl sitting behind it. The girl wore too much eye makeup and she held a cell phone tightly to her ear. She didn't seem to register us as we walked by.

"What do you do here?"

I'd said the wrong thing again. Her face closed up and she answered a slightly different question than the one I'd asked: "We're doing wardrobe for an off-Broadway production of Electra right now. And there's an indie film about Jamaican immigrants that's coming up in a couple of weeks. So we're pretty busy."

"Do you design then?"

Her reply sounded almost angry. "No. I just handle the existing inventory. They offered me a design job right after I got here but I didn't want it."

That surprised me. "Why not?"

She didn't answer. She just started walking faster, her heels clicking hard on the concrete floor. I stayed a couple of steps behind her. She reached a door at the end of the corridor, opened it and waited until I'd walked through. We were in a large room with racks of clothing lining one wall and shelves of hats, shoes, feather boas, and odd-ball accessories of every variety along the other wall. There was even a stuffed parrot on one of the shelves. I pointed at it and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"For a production of Peter Pan."

"Ah," I said. "Pirates."

"Right. For the first few weeks I was here, all I did was sort out the various bits. You know, which shoes went with which dress? None of it was labeled. No one knew where to find anything."

A costume on the rack nearest me caught my eye. I pulled it free of the rack and examined it. It looked like a full dress uniform for a barbarian warlord.

"This looks heroic. Can I try it on?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

I looked at her quizzically. "You don't ... dress up in this stuff sometimes? You know, just for fun?

She looked a little embarrassed. "Well, no. I'm not sure why, really. It's just that I'm around costumes all day ..."

I looked back down at the outfit. It really was quite splendid. "Do you have a changing room?"

"This is really just a warehouse. We don't do fittings here."

This was getting uncomfortable. But I wasn't about to give up now – not after three days spent looking for her. And besides, how many other opportunities was I going to get to look like a Visigoth?

"How about if I just use the men's room?"

"Oh, sure." She pointed. "It's in the back."

The men's room was the size of a phone booth. But I managed to get the jangling skirt and the breastplate organized after a while. The costume included some molded foam in the pectoral area. Apparently the designer wasn't expecting much in the way of musculature from the wearer. I adjusted the sash and looked at myself in the mirror. Heroic indeed.

I stepped back into the warehouse. Shannon checked me over with a professional eye. I struck a pose and she giggled.

"You're missing the shin guards." She found them and helped me strap them on. "And, of course, there's the helmet."

She held it up. Apart from being plastic, it was magnificent. It was pointed at the top and had blotchy greenish paint meant to represent old copper. There was a slender nose guard and, most impressive of all, a blue peacock feather sticking out the back. Shannon placed it on my head with some ceremony.

"Did Visigoths even have peacocks?" I asked.

She put a finger to her lips. "Poetic license." She took a step back to gauge the overall effect. "You look very handsome."

"Sure. That's because this helmet covers half my face."

She rolled her eyes.

"Do you have outfits for lady barbarians?" I asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

I gave her what I hoped was a winning smile.

She hesitated. "Let me see what I can find."

She checked a list on her clipboard and walked towards the back. She pulled a costume off a rack and looked at it dubiously. It was a sort of white toga with gold piping, along with various accessories – a thin gold belt, clasps, bracelets.

"I don't know," she said.

I stayed silent.

"Oh, what the hell."

She disappeared into the ladies room. Time passed; more than seemed strictly necessary for putting on a toga. I used the opportunity to poke through some of the other costumes. There was a Victorian dress suit, complete with starched collar and a long cloak. Just the thing for Jack the Ripper. Cave man outfits, space suits, ballet togs. The whole panoply of human vanity, all in neat rows, carefully labeled.

I heard Shannon clear her throat behind me. I turned around and swallowed hard. The silky fabric draped over her body as if it had been designed for her. The dress clung tightly to her hips but then fell straight towards the floor, so that her legs were only suggested, visible where the cloth touched her thigh or rode up over her ankle. The neckline swept down on one side, leaving her creamy left shoulder bare, and bunched up in soft folds above her breasts. She'd tied up her dark hair in a gold circlet. The belt was tied loosely at her waist so as not to interrupt the flow of the fabric. She'd put on a bit of lipstick, too, I noticed.

The overall effect was magical.

I reached for her hand. She gave it to me with a quizzical look. I bowed gravely and kissed the back of her fingers.

She indulged me with a smile. "I don't think they did that back then."

"Poetic license," I said.

We stood there looking at each other for a moment, then we both broke into giggles.

"I just have to try this Texas Ranger outfit," I said, pointing at the rack.

She thought for a moment. "Slave girl."

I grinned. "Oh, yeah."

She shot me a dirty look, but I was already heading for the men's room with the new costume. I was back a few minutes later in a sort of brick-colored tunic with an open flap at the neck and a neat red bandana tied over it. I was trying to get the Stetson adjusted to the right angle when Shannon reappeared beside me.

She wore gauzy blue pants that billowed loosely from a narrow waistband and gathered in again at her ankles. Her legs and hips were visible as soft outlines beneath the wispy folds of the fabric. She wore ballet slippers with pointed toes, blue like the pants, and an enormous mock sapphire was attached to her bellybutton somehow. Her dark hair fell loosely on her shoulders now. And from her bejeweled navel upwards she was completely naked.

I stood in my dusty western shirt and ill-fitting hat and just stared mutely. Her breasts were round and soft and stood up high on her chest, sweeping gently upward, with dark nipples that were firm in the cool air of the drafty room. Her skin was pale, but with an almost opalescent glow. Still, with all that, it was her eyes that held me. Warm and deep and dark brown and, finally, open and unguarded.

"I don't think there's a top," she said. "At least I couldn't find one ... It's still pretty disorganized around here ..." She trailed off.

We stood three feet apart. I took a step towards her. She flinched, but she held my eyes. We were close enough now that I could feel her warmth, smell her perfume. I took another step. Her breasts touched the faux mother-of-pearl buttons on my tunic. She looked down at where our bodies came together then back up at me. Her eyes were huge, intoxicating. I leaned forward until our lips just touched. I felt her shiver, and her arms came up and around my neck. I held her, my hands touching the bare skin of her back, her warmth flowing into my fingers.

I lost all sense of where I was. The pressure of her lips absorbed every other feeling. Her body melted into mine and I could feel my excitement grow. But nothing could distract me from that kiss. Our mouths were open now and our tongues moved against each other and everything fell away and I closed my eyes and let her softness and her heat overwhelm me.

And then, abruptly, I was standing by myself in the middle of the room, blinking stupidly as if I had just woken up. The receptionist stood in the doorway to the warehouse, still holding her cell phone to her ear, utterly captivated by whatever the person at the other end of the line was saying, but still managing to speak.

"Hey, Shannon? Are you back here? The Electra guys are out front. They want to talk to you."

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I heard Shannon's muffled voice from somewhere behind me.

"Okay. Tell them I'll be there in a minute."

The receptionist looked around, non-plussed. Hearing Shannon but seeing a strange guy in a cowboy suit obviously didn't compute. "Whatever."

She shrugged and headed back towards the front desk.

Shannon poked her head out from behind a gorilla suit. "Is she gone?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes darted around. "Do you think she saw ...?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. I had my back to her, and she seems pretty oblivious generally."

"Okay."

"Are you coming out of there?" I asked.

"Yes. I should go talk to the Electra guys. Could you ... you know ... turn around?"

"Oh. Sure."

I turned away and heard hangers jostling then soft running footsteps. I chanced a look over my shoulder just in time to see the sweet curve of her bare back and the billowy harem pants hugging her waist before she ducked back into the ladies room.

She was out again a minute later, back in her jeans and shapeless sweater. She walked fast towards the front room. I almost had to run to catch up with her.

"I should probably go," I said.

She just nodded. Her pace picked up again.

"Can I see you tonight?" I asked, now trailing well behind her. The question came off a bit plaintively.

"No ... I've got something else."

"Tomorrow?"

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Then she was out the door. I stopped chasing her. By the time I reached the lobby, Shannon was already talking earnestly with two artistic-looking guys in the sitting area. I nodded to the receptionist, who still had the phone snugged up against her ear. She looked right through me as I walked out of the building.

* * *

I sat by my window in the next morning, waiting for her. I did the same the day after. I could call her at work, I knew, or go there again; but something told me to hold off. I spent the evenings in what I thought of as "our" café. There was no sign of her. Another day went by and another. I didn't know what to think. Should I wait for her to call, give her some time to work things out? Did she even know how to find me?

I'd reached a state of near-paralysis when Wayne, my artist friend, called one evening. I shook myself from my stupor on the third ring.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"In my apartment," I said. "Looking out the window."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to drag you away from that."

I wasn't in the mood for his usual flamboyance. "What is it, Wayne?"

He paused a beat. "Carlos and I are in that tapas place on Court Street. You know the one? The maitre'd is a bit on the hirsute side and he always leaves the top buttons on his shirt open so that everyone can satisfy themselves on the point?"

"Yes," I said. "And?"

"And what?"

"And you're at the tapas bar and what?"

"If you're going to take that tone, I'm not going to tell you."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. "Okay, I'm sorry, Wayne. What's up?"

"That's better. So I'm in here with a big plate of tiger prawns. Carlos talked me into it; they have little black eyes, did you know that? And they stare up at you. I gave them all names before swallowing them. There's Freddy and George and Shirley – and I was about to send George to his final resting place, when your friend walked in."

"Which friend?"

"The 'we're just friends' friend. The stunning brunette you introduced me to at my opening. The one that might just entice me into changing my sexual orientation if you don't get that tight little butt of yours over here in the next few minutes."

"Shannon?"

"We are a little slow on the uptake tonight, aren't we?"

My heart suddenly started pounding in my chest. I took a deep breath. "Right. Thanks, Wayne. How did you know? ... Never mind. Have you spoken to her yet"

"No. I don't think she's noticed that I'm here."

"Don't. When I get there pretend that I was planning to meet you tonight, okay?"

I could almost hear Wayne grinning at the other end. "Wear that black turtleneck of yours. It makes you look like James Bond."

"Yeah, right. Thanks, Wayne. See you in a bit."

But I did dig the turtleneck out from the bottom of a drawer. Tan slacks, leather bomber, hair combed and I was on my way.

The restaurant was only a few blocks away. Its amber glow spilled out of big plate glass windows onto the crusted snow on the sidewalk outside. I spotted Shannon as soon as I'd walked in. She was sitting at the long bar with the receptionist from her work. The maitre'd with the unbuttoned shirt was leaning against the bar talking to them.

Wayne waved at me from a table in the corner. I walked over and sat with him.

"That didn't take you long," he said, eying my shirt.

"Thanks for the heads-up," I said.

"Are you going to talk to her?"

I inhaled. "Yeah. Come with me, though. It'll be less awkward. She likes you."

He cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Never mind," I said. "Just come with me."

He shrugged and stood up. We walked over to the two girls. The maitre'd had moved on.

"Good evening," I said.

Shannon turned towards me. The filtered light gave her fine skin a sculptural look, as if her face has been carved from some sun-warmed stone. She looked so lovely I could barely speak.

Her expression was guarded, but she finally smiled demurely. "You're right. Brooklyn really can feel like a small place."

"You remember Wayne," I said, turning towards him.

She smiled again, more broadly this time. "Of course. I've been expecting to see your picture in the Arts & Leisure section ever since I met you."

"Yes, my agent assures me that it's only a matter of time before I'm in the papers. But perhaps it's the obituary section he's referring to."

Wayne smiled a bit wanly. His work hadn't sold quite as well as he'd hoped after the show.

"Excuse me, won't you?" he said. "The shrimp are calling."

"Shrimp?" asked Shannon as Wayne headed back to his table.

"Yes. He's named them all, apparently. He works hard at his eccentricities."

"Ah. And I thought that they just came naturally to him."

The conversation was feeling just a bit surreal. The last time we were together I'd held her half-naked in my arms. Now we were discussing shellfish.

A cell phone rang. Shannon's friend reached into her purse. Sounds of clinking glasses and murmuring conversation swirled around us, but we were alone, just the two of us facing each other in the steamy restaurant.

"I think about you all the time."

She looked away. "Don't say that. I'm with Frank."

I shook my head, exasperated. "Why are you wasting your time with him? He's not going to make you happy."

"I thought Frank was your friend."

I just stared at her, waiting for her to answer my question. She shifted back on her stool, making some space to retreat into.

"He's ... safe," she said finally. "When it ends with him, I won't feel ...." She was half-talking to herself, but there was a catch in her voice even so. "I won't feel anything."

I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her. I reached out and took both her hands. "Was it something that happened while you were in Los Angeles? Did someone hurt you?"

She didn't answer right away. But she left her hands where they were. They felt cold, her fingers stiff.

"No, nothing like that. I just want to know that I can leave whenever I want, that nothing is holding me here."

I tried to absorb what she was saying, to figure out what she really meant. "You've been avoiding me," I said. "Are you afraid of getting involved? Is that it? Do you hate New York that much?"

She looked down and finally seemed to notice that I was holding her hands. She disengaged them gently and put them back in her lap.

I rubbed my forehead miserably, trying to think of what else to say. Finally, I dug around in my pockets until I found a scrap of paper and a pen. I wrote down my address.

"Come to my place tomorrow around seven o'clock. I'll make dinner. Something interesting. Just dinner, okay?"

I put the paper down on the stained bar-top in front of her. Her hands stayed in her lap. The other girl finished her conversation and closed her phone. She said something to Shannon that I couldn't hear. Her voice was high-pitched and excited. I nodded to both of them and walked back to the table where Wayne and Carlos were sitting. Their heads were close together and they were speaking softly. I didn't want to interrupt, so I changed direction and headed for the door. It occurred to me that of the four people I had met tonight, none had asked me to join them for dinner. I stepped outside and looked back in through the windows as snow drifted down and settled in my hair. The piece of paper with my address was still sitting where I'd left it on the bar.

* * *

I spent Sunday afternoon crisscrossing the neighborhood. I found a perfect Atlantic salmon, fresh-smelling and silvery. I selected vegetables with care, baby carrots, golden beets, a lovely butternut squash with seductive curves. I found some fingerling potatoes with glossy purple skins. I roasted the squash and julienned vegetables until my fingers were numb. I found myself checking the clock every three minutes. All day long I'd been telling myself that she wasn't coming. And, really, I had no reason to think that she would. But I'd bought a large fish.

Seven o'clock came and went. Preparations complete, I poured myself a glass of pinot gris and settled into my chair by the window. Snow fell gently outside and swirled in the streetlight glow like an upended snowglobe. Then I saw her dark form, wrapped to the ankles in her down coat. The hem seemed to move smoothly, fluidly, as if she were floating above the newly-laid snow.

She passed beneath the window as she'd done a dozen times before, except that this time she stopped, peered at the column of little white rectangular buttons, then pressed mine. I buzzed her in and waited at the top of the stairs.