Snow and Dark Brown Eyes
Ray Timmins
Dave walked in the early evening down a quiet side road toward the mall. He was bundling up his body to shield himself from the cold; a light snow had just begun to fall and was gently covering the familiar road to the Town Square Mall where his girlfriend Phoebe worked.
When he arrived at the electronics store where she worked he waved. She saw him, smiled and put her finger up, signaling him to wait.
Dave sat down on a bench and watched the mall rats scurry past talking loudly to one another in their little nomadic cliques. No particular conversation was audible by itself, but was merely one badly tuned instrument in a cacophonous symphony of drivel and din in the key of shit. Dave hated the mall more and more every time he went there. If Phoebe hadn’t worked there he wouldn’t go on a dare. Cheesy haircuts bobbed like hollow barnacled buoys in and out of over-priced, supposedly fashionable stores. And he cringed. He reached down to tie his ragged Converse and took his black, faded denim jacket off.
Phoebe walked out with her arms spread, readying for a big hug and kiss. And he gave them to her. She smiled seductively, biting her lower lip. Her eyes brightened as she ran her delicate fingers through his messy brown hair: "How ya been?"
"OK."
She gestured with her eyes toward the door.
"Yeah."
Now they were outside, away from the zombies—all alone with the gentle snow and the quiet glow of the moon. Dave focused all his attention on sipping in every inch of her face with his eyes. Dark hair, nearly black. Her deep brown eyes glowed with optimism and a simple understanding of the joy of living that cast a spotlight on the heavens as she looked upon them. Looking at those eyes sometimes made him want to cry. Sometimes they even made him a bit envious. He knew of no such joy; he could only rationalize its existence, but not actually experience it. The contrast of her glowing white turtle-neck sweater and her black skirt looked splendid in the pale moonlight with the snowflakes meandering down in the background. The only thing paler and more aglow than her sweater—or even the snow—was her skin. Smooth and consistent from her toes up to her forehead, from her ass to her breasts. Dave would dreamily lose himself studying the landscape of her body—or just imagining it.
"Dave!"
"Wha—what?"
"Are you listening?"
"Sorry."
"What were you thinking?" She leaned her mouth in closer to his face and pecked him gently twice, using all of her full lips.
He raised an eyebrow and cast a devilish grin.
Her eyes widened seductively. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah," Dave smiled. He placed his hand on her milky thigh and felt deeply.
She rolled her eyes and put her hand on his cheek. "You didn't shave today, didja?"
"No, nor yesterday."
"You're so cute," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"I know," Dave said, blushing, unable to completely pull off the mock conceit.
She kissed him deeply, working her hand into his shirt and across his chest.
"You going to the pep rally tomorrow?"
"I doubt it, Phoeb’, it's during my art class and I actually like that class. I'm not much for school spirit anyway."
"Yeah, I know. You're not much for anything, are you?" She was getting serious now.
"I love you, what about that?"
"Well, what else? You're so damn cynical about everything else it seems. Everything's got to be so logical to you. Must you analyze everything?" She was getting noticeably more upset.
"I dunno. I like art class OK, I suppose. And I like thinking about things. Always have. Find it unsafe to take anything at face value."
"What about your feelings toward me? Have you thought about them?"
"No, I mean, I know I love you."
"How?"
"I just do. That's very simple for me. I'm not sure why, but it is," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Oh, and I like to read. I love just getting lost in the library. It's a great feeling."
"But you don't do any of the assigned reading in English and you read my notes when the test comes around. I know you're smart and you like to read— what's wrong?"
"I read The Catcher in the Rye. It's the only thing I could get into so far."
"And what about the ten other books? Crime and Punishment, Les Miserables, Don Quixote . . ."
"Just couldn't get into them at the time and within the time limits we were given. I'd like to read them all eventually. But it's hard to keep at something like that everyday without getting distracted."
"Is it me?" Phoebe asked turning her head. "Do I distract you?"
"How? I mean, I'm no worse than before I met you. C'mon Phoeb’, let's not start this again."
"I just can't understand . . ."
"What? What Phoebe? What can't you understand?" he spoke louder, more nervously.
"That you can love me so much and do so much for me while you hate everything else. Including yourself."
He thought a moment as she began to cry.
He stared at the ground: "Well, Phoeb’, I just don't know. I mean, I don't exactly hate myself. I'm not sure much of anybody else likes me, but I do."
"Yeah, so do I," she cast a quick smile through her tears.
"Listen—don't worry about my feelings toward you. I love you, I know that. But you're right, I'm not too crazy about the rest of the world. But that's what's so great about us—we have each other. We could just run away together and forget about the rest of the world."
"But I don't want to run away. I like the world. I want you, but I want you here along with everything else."
Phoebe nestled up against him and put her arms around his waist. He ran his fingers through her silky hair and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"I really do love you," she said, the sound slightly muffled by his jacket.
"So do I."
He put his hand under her chin and brought her head up. Then he lined up his wounded eyes with her eyes. He meant to say "I love you," but instead he let one small tear fall down his cheek. Something about what she had said was right and he knew it. He still thought school spirit was bullshit, but he saw in her eyes that she was concerned about something deeper that she couldn't quite express. She was concerned. He couldn't figure it out either, not exactly, just this vague impression. Something about his ever-present feelings of alienation. Issues going back way before her.
She had become his distraction. She possessed a strength and confidence he had never known. And that's what made him cry. He thought so complexly because he wasn't satisfied with the simple truths of life. She seemed to be content with the way things were in the world—she didn’t have it in her to question things for their own sake.
"I love you, Phoebe. I really, really love you," he finally said, kissing her deeply.
"Time to go," she said softly and sweetly, looking directly into his eyes. She reassured him and put his tormented soul at ease. Gave him courage to walk, to breathe, to smile, to talk, to sleep, to get up in the morning—courage to just live.
"Break's over already?" he said, whining a bit.
She nodded and stood up, pulling on his hand to get him up.
They walked, snuggled closely together, back to the electronics store and kissed one last time. Then she turned and walked away. Dave stood staring at her legs; they hypnotized him with each step.
She turned her head and mouthed, "Call me."
Dave slowly turned around and walked away. He stopped at the bookstore and looked around. For the cold walk home he stopped in the food court and got a steaming hot basket of chili-cheese fries.
Walking outside, his breath puffing into the night air, he ate his fries and stared at the frozen trees around him. And the cars with frosted windows and the darkened store fronts with Christmas lights around their windows. He looked at the half-moon sighing restfully in the sky and pictured himself curled up at home in his blanket.
The walk was about thirty minutes; he mostly stared at the houses and delighted at the charm in the twinkling, multi-colored lights. They were dazzling in the dark, with the gently falling snow, and without a human soul or the noise of a car to distract him from the moment. And even the parked cars were beautiful in their stoic stillness and silence. Everything seemed so quaint that he wondered where all the previous anxiety had gone. The fries seemed like the most delicious things he'd ever tasted. Then he thought about Phoebe and her eyes and her smile and her love and her kisses and her naked body smooth across every rise and fall of its ivory landscape.
He closed his eyes and saw the falling snow that had reflected in her dark brown eyes. And for that night he felt as if he were seeing the world through her holy and blessed eyes. She had given them to him during that long stare when they had both cried for each other. He wondered if she felt his pain in the way that he was now experiencing her joy. And he cried again, but this only made everything seem even more wonderful.
