The Day It Snowed

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
On the day it snowed, I could never have forseen what was coming.
How could I have?
How could you know if someone loves you? I could guess, predict, fantasize...but never know. Just like I couldn't have guessed it would snow that day.

Submitted: November 11, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 11, 2015



It doesn’t snow in Oregon—not ever. But it did today.

When I walked out of Willamette Hall of the University of Oregon after my biology lecture, a thin layer of crispy silver-white crystal has already covered the otherwise dark cement ground; the sky was a grayish shade—what a pity. Snow is always beautiful when the sun shines on them.

I buttoned up my coat, buried my chin in the scarf Zuri bought for me a couple months ago, and hurried down the steps; the snow was not thick enough to crunch under my boots, but I walked on them deliberately just for fun. The wind was unbelievably cold when I left campus, head down, eyelid lowered.

Zuri’s and my apartment was a ten-minute walk from campus. It was, technically, her apartment in the first place, but after a whole year of nagging and pleading, I happily moved in with her beginning of this school year.

I know Zuri wasn’t interested in girls as I was, and she certainly was not in love with me as I was with her, but I was certain that she had at least some sort of regard for me, despite being straight as a ruler.

The November wind blew the scent of Starbucks coffee to my nostrils as I strolled down the muddy, snow-stained sidewalk, giggling to myself at the thought of what occurred last night.

My bedroom was too empty at night, so I liked to sneak to Zuri’s room in the dark, knock lightly and use my puppy dog eyes to beg her to let me stay in her room for the night. Sometimes she would look at me sternly and slammed the door in my face—sometimes she wouldn’t.

Last night Zuri was in a good mood, almost smiling when she opened her door to me. A rare sight indeed; not that she didn’t smile—she smiled often, just not to me. Whenever her eyes fell on me it would turn blank and cool, like dark, gloomy tunnels. She had that dark attraction about her—something absolutely irresistible to me.

“Zuri, can I stay…” I pleaded, smiling and trying to act small and lovely: it was hard considering I was almost 6 feet tall: a head taller than her.

She looked at my face sharply—an all-knowing, critical look that goes well with her Asian acuteness.

“What is it this time? Bad dream? Heater not working?” she asked sarcastically. I didn’t know if it was just her or a universal Asian characteristic, but she loved to use sarcasm.

“Can I just come in? It’s so cold out here.” And with that I slipped into her room, jumping into her bed before she could drag me out.

Zuri closed the door, crossed her arms and shook her head at me. But she was smiling ever so slightly, as if to say “Ah! This naughty girl.” That was a wonderful sign.

I was a year older than her and a great deal taller, but she was always the one who played the adult, the care-giver, the “boyfriend”.

“Scoot over.” She said plainly, and sat back down on the bed, turning off the lights.

My heart accelerated in the dark, as it always does when Zuri is so close to me. I snuggled near her, careful not to get too near to upset her. She has made it perfectly clear to me the first time I confessed to her that she was straight, so I had to adopt a more subtle way of gaining affection.

“Why are your hands so cold, Marianne?” she suddenly asked. My hands had just accidently touched her arm.

“I was standing outside for a while, you know.” I snuggled even closer.

She sighed, sat up a little, and put an arm around me, pulling the blankets closer to us to tuck me in. I buried my head in her shoulder, and smiled into the dark as her arm circled about my neck.

Sometimes Zuri was gentle to me—so gentle that I started to fantasize if she actually liked me. Such was a moment of these cases. I lied warmly in her half-embrace, and—unable to control myself—lifted my head to kiss her cheek.

She was motionless as a statue, not looking at me, but she didn’t turn away. It was how she expressed emotion, and I was more than satisfied.

My arm went around her waist, as she said: “Go to sleep, Marianne.”

Then she touched my forehead lightly with her lips. She rarely touched me, but every time she did, it would reveal so much affection that I cannot help melting against her tenderness.

Just thinking about it made me blush again. Grinning uncontrollably, I said hello to everyone I met along the way home. Zuri was bound to be home by this hour—it was Friday, and she had no classes Friday afternoons. I was about to see her in 30 seconds.

Opening the door cheerfully, the first thing I saw was a pink suitcase: my suitcase, standing at the back of the living room.

Zuri was sitting on the sofa near the living room window, dressed in her usual white shirt and sweatpants. Leaning her dark-haired head on the sofa back, her eyes gazed coolly at me.

“Hey! Um…did you need my suitcase?” I asked uncertainly. Something wasn’t right.

“No. But you would.”

“What? Why?”

“Get out of my place.”-was her reply; hard, emotionless, naked malice.

I stood there dumbstruck. Unable to speak for at least 10 seconds, I simply stared at her unbelievably. Then I finally managed to say: “What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. I don’t want you with me. Now pack your things and get out.” Her black eyes narrowed.

“What? No! But why? I have nowhere to go!...”

“Not my problem. Are you going to pack or not?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t say anything. What is this? Why is she doing this after last night? Surely she can’t be this cold, this inhumane…

“Fine.” She stood up and walked into my bedroom. I ran in after her—she opened my closet, and with one sweep of a hand took out all of my clothes plus hangers; then turning to the drawer, the other hand yanked it out, pouring everything in it onto my bed. I finally realized what she was going to do.

“Don’t! Stop it! Why are you…”

She took to the bookshelf and swept everything off of it. My books—textbooks, notebooks, journals—hit the ground with dull thumps one after another, like raindrops thundering on roofs. I screamed.

“Zuri! Please! Why are you being mad at me!”

“I am not mad.” She looked at me blankly, then passing me she swept into the living room. I ran behind her.

“I’ve done the work for you. Now put everything in there and go.” she threw all the clothes onto the innocent, pink suitcase, then going back into my room carried back out all my books and other belongings. When she saw me standing there without having moved an inch, she stopped with her arms full and stared at me.

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

Why is it that young and small as she was she could always somehow look at me as if she was two feet taller and ten years older—a look of contempt and almost disgust. I bit my lip.

“You can’t do this. I have nowhere to go.”

“I said that is your own problem. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

I gazed at her hard. “I can’t leave.”

Her eyebrows went up. Seconds later she nodded coldly.

She walked to the front door, opened it, and threw my books out into the aisle. They made a terrible rumbling noise as they hit the grey wooden floor. Without hesitation she came back, seized my clothes, and—

“Please!” I screamed again, almost sobbing now, “Please! You can’t do this! Zuri! What did I do?!”

“Stop acting like a baby, love.” She replied dryly, and grabbing my suitcase she hurled it out the door. It slammed into the aisle and burst open with a WHAM! I clutched at my face and stared, horrified and crying. Why is she doing this?! What have I ever done besides love her? Is that what made her mad? Is this how she wants to punish me?

Zuri walked up to me, and wiped a tear away from my cheek almost frivolously. She kissed me on the lips. An icy, hard, mocking kiss.

“Bye-bye, Marianne, or do you want me to throw you out too?”

5 minutes later I stood at the front of the apartment complex, my suitcase in hand, and the scarf Zuri gave me still hung around my neck. There was not a place in the world that I could go to.

Silver-white flakes fell on my long, brown hair, then onto the ground, covering up the damp cement pavement—it was snowing again.

But it never snows in Oregon—not ever. 

© Copyright 2019 mikahlischlowski. All rights reserved.

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