It was beautiful. The snow was kissing the pine trees so gently that the softness had turned the city into a snow globe. The flurries danced in the wind’s whisper, landing on the roofs of Pittsburgh’s buildings. Not only had the snow magically turned the city into a snow globe, but the bright white of it all had made a wintery village. People traveled to and fro with steaming cups of coffee, skating around on the shiny sidewalks. The snowfall was perfect. So perfect that you would expect to see an elf posing by a stoplight or a curved candy cane in place of a flag pole. The seducing breeze could be heard, calling everyone to the blanket of white. In untouched patches of snow, boys and girls giggled as they fanned their arms and legs to create snow angels. The falling snow was the lingering laughter of the children…

Joyce turned away from the window and returned to the blank canvas in the guest bedroom. Back when she had first rented the apartment, she automatically transformed the whole room into a studio. Art was her escape, her everything. A worn Post-It note was pinned to the corkboard that hung on the yellow wall, reading ‘more personal’ in black ink. They were the two words that would not be hushed in her mind. It had just been over a week since she was given that note by her college art professor, who was practically a female version of Van Gough. Her portfolio was still not good enough to be considered for publishing and since senior year was ending, the pressure was looming. Although the deadline was drawing close, the stress wasn’t going to weigh her down, it couldn’t.

From the studio, she heard the coffee pot in the kitchen. Gliding in her fuzzy socks to the fresh brew, she giggled as she nearly stumbled over the broom. With the bottle of sugar cookie flavored creamer and the hazardous tall broom in the other, she flicked on the radio with a wooly toe. The jazzy tune of ‘Santa Baby’ livened her soul. She sang with such passion, “So hurry down the chimney tonight!” The broom made an excellent microphone! Joyce danced in the fridge’s reflection and laughed at herself as she tried to sway her hips in time with the beat. Oh, how she loved Christmas time. The month of December was full of incredible joy and contagious cheer! 

As she swirled the sugar into her favorite mug with a cinnamon stick, she heard the phone. She nearly leaped onto the sofa to grab it. “This is the residence of Joyce Mara. May I ask who’s calling?” She licked the cinnamon stick and placed it between her teeth. 

“It’s me, Owen.” He chuckled at her tagline and that made her giggle. She was delighted to hear his voice. “I’m  just making sure we’re still good for tomorrow.” Noise from his office could be heard somewhere through the phone.

Twirling the long cord in between her red-painted fingertips, she replied, “Of course! I’ll meet you on the steps at seven.” She squealed, not minding if she sounded like a fifteen-year-old talking to a boy for the first time. Once he confirmed, she could not stop thinking about tomorrow. What would she wear? What purse should she bring? Do guys even care about purses? All of these questions fed Joyce’s adrenaline for their third date!

Energized with elation, she danced to one last song before setting up her art station in the studio. Buttery yellows and burning oranges were splattered onto the palate. She made a passionate smear and fingerpainted her way across a third of the canvas. Without a plan, she let her excitement radiate into the paint. 

After using up the two colors, Joyce washed her hands and set to work on the Christmas tree. Christmas activities were impossible to ignore when the snow looked that alluring. She fixed up a chicken sandwich (with festive cranberries, of course!) and hauled the large box from the closet.

While letting the Christmas music ooze out of her, she topped the tree in no time. There were fake pine needles all over her denim overalls but she didn’t care, for the tree was up and lit!

***
It was quiet. The snow was still as it lay on the streets of the city. People were bundled in scarves and hats, trying to stay warm. As the snowflakes shimmied down from the sky, chimneys breathed clouds above the busy streets. The cars navigated the avenues as they drove through the grey snow. Chunks of it were everywhere, pushed up against the curbs, stuck on cars, and pasted onto shoes. Boots of pedestrians scattered the sidewalks as people walked under the air. For winter, it was not too cold but not too warm either. The outside world was calm and harmless...

Surveying the streets, Joyce stood in blue jeans and a grey jacket. Eventually, she saw Owen rounding the corner of 21st Street. “So this is the Joyce Mara residence.” He grinned and greeted her with a hug. He looked so handsome. 

“So it is.” She smiled back. She pulled a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her pierced ear, creating a distraction from her rosy blush. Her diversion had clearly failed because as the pink on her cheeks deepened, he interlaced his gloved hand with hers as they started down the road. They planned to look at the lights of Pittsburgh and to have a romantic night entranced by the golden bulbs. 

Walking with her head on his broad shoulder, she melted into the feeling of comfort. They passed store windows with cotton-ball snowflakes and strolled by sparkling parks. As they peered up at the town’s glimmering tree, they became wrapped together like the red tinsel. This was the perfect moment to tell him her secret, the thing she feared the most. It was a deep insecurity that was an icicle sharpened by avoidance. She had to tell him, it was part of her. “Um, you should know something.” The cold seemed to get colder then. 

“Okay. I know we met on a blind date but I didn’t think you’d murder me this soon.” He laughed at his own joke and brushed his dark hair back, causing static with his soft gloves. 

“Good one.” She gave a weak giggle as she prepared to admit the truth. Don’t do it, Joyce, don’t make him turn away. The icicle was too frozen to thaw. Besides, a rumbling taxi blasted its annoying horn and the moment was ruined. 

“What? What were you going to say, Joyce?” Owen’s face fell.

“Nevermind.” Joyce grabbed a feathery sprig of pine as she studied the tree’s ornaments once again. “You really pegged me as a murderer?” They both chuckled then and returned to 21st.

On the steps of Joyce’s apartment, they shared a lingering kiss. Their numb lips together forged warmth but a shiver traveled through Joyce's bones as she recalled the icy mass at her core. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Owen said, smiling. A plume of frosty air dissolved with his words. 

“I’ll be waiting.” With one last kiss to cap the night, she returned to her apartment. She threw her silver handbag onto the sofa, changed into sweatpants, and grabbed a cherry pastry from the living room’s coffee table. Delicious. Fueled and recharged, she entered the studio and continued painting on the same canvas. Steady strokes of chiseled grey blended with white to form expressive smudges. She took a step back from the easel to analyze her work but as she did, Joyce felt what she had been dreading.

 ***
It was relentless. The snow shed its white tears as it wailed. Blurry views and greying skies made the city look like a colorless sketch. The wet snowflakes swirled in the howling wind. The stormy gusts begged the pine needles to tumble from their trees. The people who braved the blizzard slipped as they walked, trying to find balance on the frozen puddles. Layers of glassy ice had cursed the streets. Cars drove slow, pedestrians moved fast. There was a strangeness in the blustery air. Lumps of violent snow clawed at the windows of buildings. The snow was becoming heavier and the city was one big patch of black ice…

Joyce closed the curtains and then went to the fridge. As she reached for the door, she saw that her nail polish had chipped. On the grimy surface of the glossy fridge, her reflection made her freeze. She slept in the make-up she had been too lazy to take off last night. There were dark circles around her watery blue eyes and her unwashed face had made for greasy skin. Nasty. Not finding anything in the fridge to eat, she moved to the living room where she saw the cherry pastries. She dragged her sluggish body to the sofa, but the clock that hung above the sink caught her attention. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. How could she have slept that long? She already knew.

When she made it to the sofa, she sank into the cushions that swallowed her whole. Leaning her aching body forward, she grabbed a pastry. The noise of the plastic box made her cringe and the bitter taste of cherry made her stomach lurch. That’s what she deserved for using the store’s cheap coupons. She wasn’t hungry anymore and when she set down the gross tart, the phone buzzed. It was Owen. Not having enough energy to make conversation, she let it go to voicemail. Owen’s voice began to leave a message, “Hey, Joyce. Just giving you a call. I had a great time last night, I hope you did too. Now that we ruled out you being a murderer, I want to actually know what you wanted to tell me. Anyways, you’re probably busy painting. Hope to talk soon.” There was a cutting beep and she felt a wave of familiar emptiness. Joyce didn’t want to call him back because although she hated it, she wanted to be alone. He mentioned painting and she remembered that the deadline for the personal piece was quickly nearing. Composing herself the best she could, she pulled up her loose sweatpants and went into the overly bright studio.

She flicked on the television (Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer was on) and splattered some blue paints onto a dirty palate. As she trailed the paintbrush across the last third of the canvas, she grew nauseous from the upbeat tunes coming from the poor reindeer. The part when Rudolph becomes lonely was playing quietly on the screen. She couldn’t become like that sad animal, all alone and depressed because of a little difference. Realizing what she had to do, she finished the last squiggly blue streak, then fetched the phone.       

 ***
It was falling. The snow had learned how to trust the earth as it flurried down to the comforting city again and again. 

Joyce nudged the curtains open and as she did, she heard a knock on the door. “Thanks for coming,” she said while inviting Owen into her apartment. “Sorry I never called back yesterday.” She took his jacket and folded it over one of the kitchen chairs. 

“Not a problem.” He grinned, showing off his white teeth. Accountants always looked so put-together. He sat down while she poured tea into two mugs. 

“Do you take sugar?” She was scrambling around the kitchen as if she forgot where the spoons were kept.

“I don’t need it, Joyce. Sit down, please.” He patted the open space beside him, obviously aware of her nerves. “You said you wanted to tell me about that thing.” He pulled her mind away from its spiraling chaos. 

She wasn’t sure if she should tell him. Sure, she was safe with him, but whenever she told anyone this, they always seemed to find the closest escape route. Then she remembered the icicle, sharp and honed by insecurities. She drew in a profound inhale and held onto it.

“Let me in, Joyce. Whatever it is…” He paused, for he too began to hold his breath. Joyce stood from the table, freeing the mug from her trembling hands. 

“Follow me.” As she led him into the studio, she mumbled positive affirmations to herself. 

“Wow, this is nice. You did all of this yourself?” Owen scanned the room and all of its workspace. Organized counters lined the walls and artwork dried on the lines strung from the ceiling. Paintbrushes filled ceramic cups while bottles of paint were sorted by color under the sink. 

“I had some help from my parents but yeah.” She beamed as he admired her hard work. “I want to show you this.” She unveiled the easel that was covered by a dusty rag. The canvas was beneath it, displaying all of its colors. That morning, she had finished it by painting a snowy scene in the foreground. The different colors made up the sky. Owen stood in front of it, exploring the piece with his eyes. When he tilted his head to the side, he said, “It’s you.” He took a step forward. “I can see you in this. What does it mean?” She appeared beside him and braced herself for the words she was about to say. 

The icicle was going to kill her if she didn’t get help, if she carried the numbing stake alone. No matter his response, she could at least seek peace through her confession. “I didn’t call you back.” She remembered to breathe. “I didn’t call you back yesterday because I was in a low place.” She looked away from the painting and focused on his reaction. “Do you know how Eskimos have, like, fifty-something words for snow?” Owen nodded, staring down into her fearful eyes. “It’s kind of like that. I have a lot of different emotions. If only I had the right words to describe it.” A wave of coldness overcame her body as she released the built-up tension. Owen scanned the canvas once again, taking in all of its different shades and colors. But most of all, its true meaning and the story etched into the paint.

***
It was melting. The snow was blending into spring. Renewed patches of greenery were beginning to sprout under the final patches of white. Pittsburgh’s pedestrians had shed their thick layers of woven scarves and furry hats. No longer was the weather changing ever so rapidly. Now, icicles dripped water onto passerby and the sun shone its warming rays. What was left of the melting snow was a reminder of the long, cold days and a foreshadow for all of the bright days to come…

Joyce thanked the gallery’s viewers as they complimented her piece. The colorful snow scene hung on the blank wall, peering down on all who stopped to ponder its message. The white walls and tiled floor emphasized the pieces of artwork and all of their colors. Some were abstract and others were realistic. The attitude of the brightly lit room was enough to make Joyce feel a proud sense of belonging. Feeling a gentle tap on her shoulder, she spun around. “Owen, you came.” Joyce smiled and sidestepped away from the painting to let the nicely-dressed couple walking towards it have the spotlight. 

“Of course. How could I miss this?” He kissed her forehead. “That dress looks nice on you.” 

Joyce blushed and thought back to last week when she unwrapped the present from Owen. The long-sleeve yellow dress had been covered in white tissue paper and suited her first gallery perfectly. He was always so thoughtful. Never before did she think somebody would be so accepting of all she was. 

Feeling grateful, she hugged him, looked over his shoulder, and out of the tall building’s window. “What did you decide to call it?” He whispered into her ear as the live cello music played.

From where they were, she could see a young girl making a snow angel in the last bit of snow. “‘Different Snowfalls,’” Joyce said, feeling the warmth of Owen’s embrace.