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plot by me 738 words
He's taken her up to cabin in Vermont for a week in February. The snow is pretty, and the snow that sits atop the mountain peaks are even prettier. He drives her up the mountain in the rental car, hugging closely to the mountain as she shuts her eyes out of fear. She clutches the giant paper map printout that she insisted on bringing because 'Harry doesn't know anything about driving'.
Harry laughs as he makes a sharp turn to the left, making her gasp in dramatic horror. His Green Bay Packers hat holds in the loose curls that are piled up above his head. They arrive at the cabin and Harry opens the passenger side door and grabs her by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her in as the couple begins to feel their ribs ache with laughter.
She calls our breathlessly that she can walk as he refuses to put her down until they get inside of the cabin. It's softly lit with the gentle breeze of cinnamon and musk, knit blankets draped over the brown leather couch that sits in the center of the room, framed with bookshelves of collections edition sets.
An empty kettle sits on the stove, it's chipped emerald paint begging to be used. Animal paw prints are scattered above the snow just beyond the window. Harry insists on starting a fire out on the back patio whilst she unpacks her toiletries in the bathroom. She peels back the thin white curtains with little flower details on them to reveal him standing outside, hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he stares down at a stack of cut and dried logs.
Her crew socks lightly caress her ankles as she slips a pair of snow boots back on, smiling as they make eye contact through the window. She unlocks the back door and slips out into the winter, wrapping her arms around the boy. Lights from a nearby lantern illuminate the rosy colored kiss from the brutal cold spread across his cheeks and nose.
She places a gently kiss onto his nose and bends down, picking up a log and tossing it into a fire. He smiles and watches her pick up log after log until a small pile is formed, just big enough for the two of them. He rips a couple sheets of newspaper into the pile and adds in a few twigs he managed to find unharmed by the wet snow.
She dashes back inside quickly, grabbing an already lit candle off of the miniature kitchen island. 'Cashmere Vanilla'. She brings the flame to the fire, lighting it with the tiniest of flames. She looks disappointed as her eyes gloss over at the sadness of the flame. He laughs and wraps his arms around her as she closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of snow. The fire is small enough to heat nothing but a fly.
They waltz back inside together and he turns to a record player, selecting a Frank Sinatra album and placing it onto the player. He drops the needle down as the slightly static sound fills the small cabin. Her boots and jacket are off now, only a sweater, jeans, and the same crew socks from before. He, too, takes off his jacket and boots but leaves on his scarf.
He approaches her with a smile, placing his hands gently just above her hands. Dance? He asks and she giggles, nodding her head. I hope your dancing is better than your fire making.
She steps on the tips of his toes as they waltz around the cabin, listening to the music in each other's arms. The smell of the candle fills the room and for once, he understands what real beauty is. It's not the mountains that frame the cabin windows like a museum, or the deer that prance beneath and above the mountains, inhabiting them gracefully.
But rather, beauty is the look on her face when she grabbed the candle. Beauty is the rosiness spread across her face from the cold. Beauty is the snowflakes sprinkled across her eyelashes, turning them wet. Beauty is the sound of her socks sliding across the cracked wooden floor as she hums along to Frank Sinatra.
Beauty is the feeling of her in his arms, being wanted, feeling wanted, and wanting nothing but each other.
