Sam sits by the window and watches the storm swirling in a white cloud of madness, like angry wasps swarming after unwilling prey. The chaos of it entrances her, the way it dances across the landscape with no sense or sequence or sanity, just the passion and purpose to paint the whole world white. The window panes shake from the loud assault of the wind, and she presses one hand to the cold glass, her slender fingers fanning lightly over the smattered clumps of flakes wallpapered on the other side.

On the sidewalk below, a small old man strains against the terrorizing winds, one gloved hand struggling to hold a chocolate tweed cap in place as his tan pea coat flaps around his knees. She feels sorry for him, knowing that by the time he has arrived at the subway station two blocks away, every uncovered crevice on his body will have been discovered and exploited by the unrelenting snow.

Don’t go, she said.

I’m sorry, he said.

Her cell phone rings, startling her. She picks it up absently, still staring out the window.

“Hi.”

“Hey you.” Andy’s voice is low and quiet. “At work?”

“No,” she answers, eyes trailing the man. He is battling a mound of snow up to his calves, his ill-chosen loafers slipping helplessly in the climb. “I took the day off. I woke up to all of this and decided I just couldn’t do it.”

Andy chuckles. “Well, what about braving the snow in a couple of hours and grabbing a beer with me? The office is closing early today, and with the past month I’ve had here, I could really use a drink. Plus, I feel like I haven’t talked to you in a long ass time.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A mass of gray bearing a distant resemblance to an MTA bus bravely trudges down the street past the poor traveler, laboriously pushing away the barricades of snow and crushing them into a big brown slushy left in the gutter.

“Cool. So McFadden’s at, say… 5 then?”

The storm acts quickly on the damage done by the bus, madly trying to cover up the offensive mar on its canvas. “Mmm-hmm. Sounds good. I’ll be there.”

“All right. Later then.”

She watches the little man until he disappears around the corner. Then, she turns away from the window.

***

Sometimes when she’s not careful, Sam remembers things she pretends she’s forgotten.

Like the new pink boots she had when she was eight. The ones with the fuzzy pom-poms and rubber soles, beautiful and squeaky and asking to be worn in the newly fallen snow. The ones that had her father laughing with happiness when she’d pretended to be a bunny hopping in imaginary snowdrifts the week before. The ones he’d promised to let her wear when the right time came.

But he yelled at her when she asked on that first day of snowfall. Told her to get her five-year old brother and go outside to play, without the boots. “Now,” he ordered when she started to throw a tantrum.

She remembers what it was like being outside. The way the air smelled cool and fresh like invisible fairies were dancing in the wind. The way the yard looked, blanketed in powder drifts. The way Tommy squealed and went zigzagging through the center, tossing handfuls of snow in his wake. The way she stood by the door in her sneakers and looked on as he giggled and fell backwards in a heap. “Sammy,” he cried. “The snow is so tall!”

She kicked at a small pile of snow that had been shoved aside by the door’s opening. Her fingers were cold.

She remembers Tommy’s little-boy happiness. How he shook himself like a puppy and called out to her, wanting to build a snowman. “This is going to be the biggestest snowman ever,” he told her. “We’ll make the genius book of world records!” She remembers how he crouched down and started packing snow into his small chubby hands, hoping aloud that their snowman would be magical like Frosty.

She told him his hands would get frozen. She told him she would get mittens.

She remembers sliding back into the warmth of the house, where it was dark and lonely, the indigo of dusk flooding through the windows. She remembers closing the door gently behind her, steadying herself against the frame with one hand. She remembers the smell of cold stale waffles lingering in the kitchen. She remembers placing her right foot over the back of her left sneaker, preparing to push one heel out. She remembers those seconds when there was garbled noise that meant nothing.

And then she remembers this: her mother was shouting.

***

Sam watches the people at the bar, the amber bottle of a Corona pressed firmly between her lips. A preppy looking guy in a blue collared shirt is flirting with a curly haired brunette in a pink sweater set, one arm draped casually on the deep mahogany of the counter. He leans in close to tell her a joke, and the girl laughs appreciatively, putting her palm lightly on his elbow. Sam can already see promise of possibilities hanging tentatively between them.

It wasn’t working, he said.

But I tried so hard, she said.

Andy slides into the wooden booth across from her, shaking out his gray beanie and unzipping his Northface jacket. He tosses both aside and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Woo. It’s pretty bad out there, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I hate this shit.” He grimaces. “You got here early though. Been waiting long?”

“Nah.” She downs the rest of her beer and lights a cigarette. Screw the indoor smoking laws. “You ever wonder why we hate the snow so much?”

“’Cause it’s a fucking pain in the ass?”

“It’s ‘cause we live in this damn city, where nothing stays pretty for more than a couple of hours.” She pauses and takes a slow drag, watching the smoke swirl in front of her nostrils. “In Jersey, the kids are making snowmen and having snowball fights and practically licking the snow off the pavement, but here, we go out in our industrial Timberland boots, and get stuck trying to figure out if that black mass at the edge of the sidewalk is the street or a puddle of slush six inches high. That’s enough to make any New Yorker hate the snow.”

Andy nods. “Yeah, when I was kid, I lived for snow days. Now all I can think is ‘fuck you, God’ when I wake up to this shit.”

“Exactly what happened to me today. I really hope it lets up tonight.” She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “Man, I need a shot.”

“Patron?”

“You know I don’t drink that stuff. Grey Goose. I think I might need a couple.”

“All right.” Sam ducks her hand beneath the table as Andy signals to the waitress and puts in an order for four shots of vodka and a couple of Stellas. “Such an alcoholic,” he jokes as the waitress saunters towards the bar. “And I thought you quit.” He nods towards the re-emerging stog between her fingers.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. I thought Scott hated it when you smoked.”

“Yeah, well, Scott hated a lot of things about me. I guess that’s why he dumped me.”

Andy gapes at her. “Oh shit, Sam, what the fuck?”

“Whatever.” She waves it away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“There was nothing to tell.”

“Sam, the dude you said you were gonna marry just broke up with you. I think that’s something to tell.”

She shrugs.

Andy eyes her thoughtfully. “Man, I told you he was no good for you.”

“Whatever, Andy, you never even gave him a chance.” She puts out her cigarette impatiently. “Where the hell are those shots?” She looks around. Sweater-set girl and prep boy are lost in a liplock not even the police could break up. “Gross,” she mutters, looking away.

“When’d this happen?” Andy presses on. “Seriously, why didn’t you call me?”

She plays with the leftover cigarette butt, rolling it between her fingers. “I don’t know. A couple days ago.”

“The fuck, Sam?” Andy cocks his head. “Where’d this come from? Is it a girl? It’s gotta be a girl. I’m gonna fucking kill the bastard-”

“Nah, Ands, nothing like that.” Black ashes are getting under her nails. “Just. I don’t know. I think it was bound to happen. The way he was always getting pissed at me for stuff. The way we were fighting. I should have known better, right?”

“Sam,” he said, his voice softening now. “You didn’t see this coming?”

How could she not have known?

You promised me, she said.

We all make promises we can’t keep, he said.

Shots brimming with hope of escape appear before her. She places her index and thumb delicately around one glass and looks up at Andy, her voice breaking. “I tried so hard, Ands. And I just thought, this time, it’d be enough to make him stay.”

Vodka had never tasted so good.

Andy takes a swig of his beer and starts talking again, trying to comfort her, make sense of things for her, but she shuts him out, looks away. She turns her attention over to sweater set girl and prep boy, watches them taking shots, how they chase each one in succession with kisses. Stella pouring fast down her throat, she keeps count of these endearments, notices how they vary depending on the shot – a quick peck after a sweet, easy B52; a sensual coupling of lingering lips following a smooth Belvedere; a wet, passionate, we-don’t-give-a-fuck-who’s-watching tongue pursuit after a stinging shot of Patron. And every time they throw down their glasses and move forward for their reward, Sam finds herself chasing the churning in her stomach with something liquid too. Again and again and again.

“Sam, hey, you okay?”

She whips her head around, too fast, much too fast. The world tilts precariously for a moment and then settles.

Andy is looking at her with concern. Around them, the happy hour crowd has thinned out, being replaced by hotshot bankers and consultants eager to displace the loneliness that pervades their twenty-hour workdays.

Sam giggles through her haze. The way Andy’s brow furrows is funny in a cute sort of way. She glances over at the bar again, but her favorite couple has disappeared, no doubt gone to seal the deal on all the careless promises implied throughout the night. Hiccupping, she takes another swig of her fourth Stella.

“Andy, tell me. What’s a girl gotta do to make a guy stay?” She leans in close to him on wobbly elbows planted on the table between them. “Like you. What’d get you?”

“Sam, stop drinking.” He makes to grab the bottle from her hand, but she tries to dodge him. Her elbow slips from beneath her, sending a splash of beer splattering onto the wood.

“Oops,” she giggles. She takes another gulp from her bottle and scrutinizes him through unfocused eyes. “Then again. You’re different. You’d be hopelessly devoted to your girl. Right? Even if she was a big fuck-up like me?”

“Sam, stop thinking so hard. Scott’s just fucking stupid.”

“That’s not it.” Her drunken grin falters. “He used to think I was perfect. I think I screwed it up. Wasn’t good enough. Made him too mad too often. Or something.”

“You didn’t screw it up, Sam. He didn’t appreciate you. That’s all.” He’s looking at her with dismay now. No, not dismay. Sorrow. Regret. Something like that.

You’re such a fucking mess sometimes, he said.

I’m trying, she said.

“I’m flawed,” she croaks out, and then the tears start. Big, fat, heavy drops warm as rain.

“Come on,” Andy says softly, reaching out to wipe away the wetness. “Everyone’s flawed. But I think you’re doing all right. Better than most.”

“Not true,” she sobs. “I wasn’t good enough. I tried. But still. It wasn’t enough. I always made him so mad.”

“Sam, forget what Scott thinks,” he says, brushing her hair behind her ears. And she can see now that it’s not regret in his eyes, but something bigger. “You’re good enough. You’re more than good enough to me.”

***

Sam hadn’t wanted to believe him, hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up.

But then that night Scott had insisted on walking her home in the gentle snowfall. Even though she protested that it was cold. Even though she told him she hated the snow. He wanted to take her through the cool quiet streets. The blanketing stillness. Wanted to show her how beautiful the city was at night. How clean and perfect. How frozen. How sacred. Like a snowglobe. Like bottling up perfection.

Stopping suddenly at a street corner, he turned and looked at her. “Thing is,” he said. “I feel like this is how things should be. That the world should always be this way. The way it is just being here with you.”

Sam gazed up at him as he brushed a stray flake from her cheek. The flurries were falling down around him in the thousands, illuminated by the orange street lamp above them like moths in the wind. Scott looked so earnest, so serious. Don’t buy into this, she told herself. Don’t do it.

But then he was asking her, coaxing her, telling her with his eyes to trust him. Things would stay the same. “They can and they will,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I promise.”

Standing there, his black leathery gloved palm cupped in her fuzzy white one, he told her she was beautiful. And just as he dipped his face towards her, just as he pressed his mint-laced chapped lips against hers, she closed her eyes and believed him.

***

Memories flit behind her eyelids like an old television tuning in and out. Standing in the cold, she feels snow land gently on her lids, covering her cheeks and eyes and nose, freezing her ears and hands and heart.

Why do you always get so fucking drunk? he asked.

Because I miss you, she said.

She feels Andy come up behind her, steadying her teetering figure with hands on her waist, and she can smell the musky remnants of cologne coming from his sweater. “You okay?” he murmurs close to her ear. “Stay right here, I’m going to grab us a cab so we can get you home.”

She nods. Her head feels so heavy. It’s cold now that Andy has walked away.

Why can’t you just give me some space? he asked

I’m sorry, she said.

Sam opens her eyes and sees flakes falling like a dream. “Pretty,” she mumbles.

She imagines it, maybe, but she thinks she hears Andy say softly, “Not as pretty as you.”

He’s pushing her into the cab now, making sure she’s okay. She slumps her head onto his shoulder. Grabs his hand. “Do you mean it?” she slurs. She opens her eyes briefly, watches snow pass them by in an icy blur, and attempts to focus on Andy’s eyes. Eyes that she struggles to understand, but can’t.

“Sam, I think—”

“Do you? Do you mean it? Or are you just saying pretty things to make me feel better?”

Andy sighs. “I meant what I said, Sam. I think Scott didn’t know what he was throwing away. I think Scott never saw how beautiful you are. But,” and he tries to move her hands away, “I also think you’re drunk.”

“Don’t,” she says urgently. “Please.” She raises his hand to her face, turns it over gently, and begins to kiss his palm.

***

She doesn’t want to remember the way her mother’s voice sounded that night. The way it was high-pitched but strained, almost guttural. The way she said words like “whore” and “fuck” and “asshole.” The way she was asking her father questions, questions met with a loud silence that hurt Sam’s ears almost as much as her mother’s screaming. The way she kept yelling and yelling and crying and yelling.

She doesn’t want to remember standing by the door, her hand still on the doorframe, her legs aching, her bladder bursting. How she couldn’t move, just stood watching Tommy roll big snowballs outside from the corner of her eye.

Or the way her mother said her name. “Sam,” she spat. The way she’d said those other bad words before. Or the story her mother recounted to her father, how Sam came home babbling about the lady at the café her father always talked to, saying something about wanting to grow up and be pretty just like her because the pretty lady made her father laugh.

She doesn’t want to remember crouching down on those ceramic kitchen tiles, staring at the melting snow pooling beneath her sneakers, wondering if this was her fault.

But she doesn’t want to remember what came next, either. When her mother was screaming while her father was arguing and her mother just kept getting louder and louder and louder. Until suddenly she got really quiet. Said something so low that Sam couldn’t hear at all. And everything in the house went silent.

So silent that Sam thought she was swimming in a black hole.

But there’s the part she hates remembering the most, the part that still echoes in her ears sometimes, the horrible angriness and strangledness of a voice that wasn’t her mother’s but somebody she was scared of. The words that she just can’t get out of her head.

I SAID I WANT YOU OUT.

How her stomach clenched and released. How fear and horror and ugliness flushed through her. These are all things she wants to forget.

But she can’t. Because suddenly her father was looking at her from the foot of the stairs.

And this Sam remembers so clearly that she has a hard time wiping it away even when she tries. This, she recalls with perfect clarity.

Her father called out to her. Softly. “Baby.”

She was rocking on her heels, her cheeks wet.

“Baby.” He walked over to where she was. Knelt down in front of her. Looked at her with his kind brown eyes.

She whimpered.

“Baby, I love you. Don’t forget, okay? Daddy loves you.” He put his arms around her. “Daddy thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Daddy,” she cried, rubbing her nose into his sweater. He smelled clean. Like the snow. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

He held her away and looked down at the wet spot on her brown corduroys, at the yellow puddle on the ground mixing with the gray puddle from the snow. Then he pulled her back in, hugged her close.

“Me too, I’m sorry too.” He kissed her on the forehead and smoothed her hair, his fingers lingering in the baby wisps framing her damp eyes. Then he was standing up, walking away, and before she could do anything, he went through the front door and faded into winter white.

***

They are standing in her messy room, and she is pulling off his shirt and unbuckling his belt and running her fingers through his thick brown hair. “Sam,” Andy calls, through kisses she is planting on his neck, his ears, his chest. “Sam, is this what you really want?”

She doesn’t answer him, but takes off her sweater in response, threading her fingers through his, moving them to finish the job. His eyes search hers, and he hesitates, but she is sure, she is positive, this is how it should be, this is the only way it should be.

And then she is on her back, and his warm hands are everywhere and his lips are everywhere and he is saying all the right things, respiring sweet nothings like sugar crystals thrown to the wind. Her socks are gone and her pink panties are gone, but he is here, and he is holding her, and he is looming over her, and he is staring into her. He has that look about him, that look of promises made and maybe broken, that look of something about to happen, that look of something she can’t take back. And suddenly she is seized by a stab of fear.

“Wait, wait,” she gasps, pushing him away.

He sits back on his heels. “This can stop here,” he says, his hand stroking hers.

“No, no. Just. Just. Say it again.”

“Say what again?”

“I’m beautiful. Say it again.”

He wraps her up around him. “Sam, you’re beautiful. Of course you’re beautiful.”

You’re beautiful, he said.

You’re perfect, she said.

And then he kisses her.

She wants him to take back his words suddenly, but it is too late, and he is inside her, and outside the snow is falling everywhere, suffocating her with its blanketing whiteness.

Don’t leave, she said.

I won’t, he said.

Promise me, she said.

I promise, he said.

The whiteness is filling everything. It covers brown slush and erases chapped lips and buries leather gloves and freezes menthol kisses and hides pink boots and washes away yellow puddles and builds and builds and builds until only gigantic snowmen remain, ready to awaken, fresh and new and magical.

And Sam is watching this. Watching the snow pouring fast and thick back into the twilight sky. Watching it fall upside-down from her window. Watching. Watching.

About the Author:

Karissa Chen graduated with a BA from Barnard College and currently resides in New Jersey. A Manhattan public relations professional by day, she spends her nights with her laptop, working on The Novel. In between, she enjoys wasting her time with karaoke, fantasy football and the pursuit of the perfect cupcake.