Her shadow followed me home
Two people suddenly appearing out of the fog, on a cold winter night, snow-covered trees leaning over them like sheltering palms.
That frosty promenade with scattered lights hardly visible through the hovering mist. The small river, cold and damp, now running like pulsating blood past his feet. The rising steam, threatening to extinguish their flickering kiss.
They walked arm in arm, against the mountain melt pouring past them like a school of metallic eels, eager to get to warmer waters and barely noticing the two figures merged as one.
His unexpected gift wrapped in thick bubble foam, her hands soft leather paws, a silver fox sleeping on her head. Only her face revealed: big eyes staring curiously at him like a cub full of life, but still without depth of vision. Her smile beautifully sly, like that of an evil teen, not quite knowing what evil is, nor the subtle pain of a broken heart. Her lazy lips wrapped around his, a slight flick of the tongue and he's gone.
Her confused heart melting in the dark afternoon, only to freeze again in the morning sun. Like a vampire prowling in the night and he is the werewolf howling at the moon.
The gossiping mist, with its thousand whispers listening carefully to his every word. The one-eyed tree trunks waiting for him to make a clumsy move, a withheld rattle of anticipation among their branches. His rambling thoughts shivering not from frost, but from fear of loss.
The stars spying through the conspiring clouds, orange tinted cotton-fields above the valley lights. The Lioness of the sky licking her paw with unmemorable satisfaction.
A sled appears out of the mist, drawn by two strong-willed horses with long white hair covering their eyes, heavy bells around their necks. A man with big furry coat and a black top hat sitting impatiently on the deck, a ghostly stare as he inches past them. He draws her closer then, perhaps not to protect, but to be saved.
They had met the night before. A change meeting of two old souls not anticipating the calculating nature of history, and faith being such an empty word these days. He was her latest fashion, a reliable fantasy that would soon evaporate in the everyday air, and he accepted her terms without protest, but already with regret.
Was her hair red under that winter hat? Did her eyes turn from blue to green beneath the fluttering vail of black lashes, her smile no longer a smile, but a grin, her pink cheeks suddenly cold and bleak? Did this path not lead to love, but despair?
Their passion aged with every step they took, her youth more obvious the further they walked, and he left a day behind for every footprint in the snow, towards that happy house, full of friends he would never get to know. Each time others came close, she pushed him away without hesitation. His lips still warm from her temporarily devotion.
He was her hidden desire, her shameful lust that she would slowly devour one little bit at a time. He could feel her lips on his neck, strains of her hair tumbling down, as if to distract him from her deadly bite. A small pool of blood forming on the printed snow, leaving a trail of red crumbs to find his way home.
His breath got heavier for every bridge they past, his feet dragging from behind, like an anchor chain slowly released, and threatening to pull him under unless it hit the ocean floor. Her playful passion made his hair turn grey and her fairytale words made his skin shrivel and his chest ache.
When they said their goodbyes, she looked as if she had become a child again: her laughter free and wild, her steps light and relieved, as she danced away towards the chalet light, waving her hand, but not at him. A moth, or a butterfly, drawn to the flame, or the vibrant colors of the sky, no looming above as an imminent threat.
The shadows followed him home, over bridges and past laughing people in no hurry to arrive. Fathers pulling their children on sleds. Group of teasing friends and fearless boys chasing giggling girls. Dogs tumbling in the fresh snow.
So he dragged his feet through the icy river, an eager current of salmon spirits pulling him downstream, towards the ocean of their youth, taunting him like years past and lives lived.
How many days had gone, he just didn't know, but people looked different on his return, and no one seemed to recognize this young man, now old and frail, hiding from their indifferent stares.
Her shadow trailing right behind, her careless whisper echoing in his ears, like the sound of footsteps that never were.
