First Snow
"As the first snowflake settled, it whispered secrets of a winter tale waiting to unfold.”
Her mother's words ran through Winter's mind as she watched and felt, in complete horror, the first snowflake of the season land on her nose. It's November for fuck's sake. Winter always felt the weight of her name, a reminder of the cold she never asked for. Every time the temperature plummeted below 40 degrees, she metamorphosed into a frozen icicle, a state her friends exploited with relentless invitations. Regardless, she was more comfortable in the cold of Colorado than the temperatures of Arizona, her last place of residence. She'd endured scorching temperatures exceeding a hundred degrees for two months before realizing that she was actually, quite physically ill from the temperatures. The symptoms manifested like relentless adversaries, each one a testament to the oppressive nature of the climate. Beads of perspiration had cascaded down her skin, a futile attempt to ward off the intense heat that enveloped her. Paradoxically, her skin, once vibrant, had born the clammy touch of exhaustion, drained of its natural warmth. The rhythm of her pulse was always quick, a feeble response to the demanding cadence imposed by the relentless Arizona sun. Waves of nausea swept over her, threatening to overwhelm as the unyielding rays took their toll, forcing her into a disconcerting dance with the elements. Her muscles rebelled against the oppressive heat, contorting into painful cramps that added a physical layer to her ordeal. A pervasive fatigue settled in, rendering her weary and drained, the relentless high temperatures extracting every ounce of energy. The world around her had spun in disorienting circles, a dizzying effect of the scorching heat. A ceaseless parade of pounding headaches that intensified, a throbbing reminder of the sun’s unyielding assault on her senses. It was a fierce battle not only against the physical symptoms but also against the harsh reality of a climate that seemed determined to strip away every vestige of vitality. The struggle had left her weakened and vulnerable, yearning for a respite from the relentless heat that held her captive. The cold however, with an almost sentient quality, sought her out, weaving itself into the fabric of her existence. As if guided by an unseen hand, the frosty tendrils of the cold wind wrapped around her, caressing her skin and bones with an uncanny familiarity. It was as though the very air recognized her as one of its own, a harmonious dance that quite frankly, she did not want to engage in. Each snowflake that fell as she walked was a crystalline messenger descending from the heavens to bestow supposed magic on the earth. The winter season acted as a painter, crafting a canvas of silver and white, where shadows play in harmony with the soft glow of moonlight. It weaves a tapestry of stillness, inviting reflection and introspection. Introspection and reflection she did not need. She found that if she sat alone too long, rage and crippling loneliness became her company. She knew she was dramatic in how she tried to explain again and again why she would not and could go skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, or any other winter activity with her friends.
She caught her reflection in the glass doors of the Knotted Root Brewery doors and nearly growled. She had spent the day in a balayage salon in Boulder, but you wouldn't know by the way her hair, a blend of silver, white, and gray, looked exactly the same it had before she sat for the five hour session. It was as if her wintry locks held a steadfast commitment to their natural hues, impervious to the coloring she had sought. Instead, her hair cascaded in the same ethereal blend, embodying the essence of frost-kissed strands that refused to be subdued. Her ice blue eyes, a captivating reflection of glacial depths, rolled in response to her unaltered reflection. Undeterred, she stepped into the taproom where the locals had packed it out. A comforting blend of aromas enveloped her senses. The air carried the rich, earthy notes of crafted beers, each brew telling its own story. The warmth of toasted malt hung in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of hops that promised an upcoming batch of freshness. She maneuvered her way through the room, soft ambient lighting cast a warm glow over the patrons, creating pockets of intimacy amidst the lively chatter. The hum of conversations interwove with the occasional clink of glasses, creating a melodic backdrop that resonated with the heartbeat of the brewery. Eli, the beertender, moved behind the bar with practiced ease, his movements orchestrating a dance with the array of taps and credit card swipes. As Winter approached the bar, she felt the comforting embrace of familiarity, a sense of home within the walls of Knotted. Eli cast her a quick glance over his shoulder as she snuck behind the bar.
"You begged for time off not to go through with it?" he demands. In response, Winter swiftly retrieved her phone from her back pocket, scrolled to her photos, and thrust it toward Eli’s face. He whistled upon seeing the photo of her brown hair with caramel and blonde highlights taken by the stylist. The colors appeared as if they had bled out during the hour it took for her to return home even though there was no trace on her clothing. The color had simply vanished out of her hair.
"Fucking Winter."
"I don't know about that," he chuckled. "Still think you should see a doctor why you can't keep color in your hair. That's just bizarre."
"Thanks, doc, but I'm good," she rolled her eyes and logged into the second ipad. "Looks like we'll be busy tonight."
"Yup, the Finney boys are playing that racket they call music again." She looked out to their patio and sure enough, Nick and Taylor Finney were mixing and banging on a keyboard and synth machine. The mountain town seemed to wrap them in the tranquil nighttime embrace. The snow-capped peaks were behind them, their majestic silhouettes contrasting against the darkening sky. A sense of community thrived in the air, as locals gathered to unwind, their laughter resonating like a familiar melody that filled the room.
"It's called Synthwave, old man. And if you hate it so much, stop scheduling them."
"But I love getting to argue with you about what should be considered music," he chuckled and placed a chaste kiss on her lips. The room filled with a low, rumbling growl, the vibrations coursing through the air like a distant thunderstorm. Gradually, it intensified, building in both volume and intensity. As the growl crescendoed, it transformed into a commanding roar, a declaration of strength and territorial dominance. A sudden hush fell on the room, and a collective tension seized everyone present. Growing up in the small mountain town, encounters with bears were a familiar part of life. The mere notion of a bear’s presence could silence even the most animated conversations. In the midst of this stillness, Eli’s instincts kicked in. He moved with swift determination, navigating through the room’s anticipatory atmosphere. The urgency of the moment manifested in hurried steps as he made his way to the garage, the epicenter of the impending encounter. Nick and Taylor rushed into the room, leaving their equipment to be completely demolished. Eli grappled with the garage doors with a sense of urgency etched across his face. The wooden panels, resistant to his efforts, creaked against their tracks. Midway through the process of securing the entrance, Eli’s movements ground to a halt as a man’s head emerged, bridging the gap between the outside world and the intimate confines of the brewery. His hair, cropped with the left side slightly longer, playfully teased over one eye, adding an air of mystery to his presence. As he straightened to his full height, a palpable stillness settled over the room, akin to a collective held breath. His stature, marked by broad shoulders and a commanding chest, carried a silent strength reminiscent of a bear’s formidable presence. However, the room entered a state of collective denial, resisting the connection their thoughts sought to make. They observed the man, taking his size, the large white and gray pelt and dark trousers. Their eyes shifted back and forth from him to Winter. Winter, sensing the weight of their gaze, felt the scrutiny intensify, for the man’s hair and eyes eerily mirrored her own features.
