Her scarf slid off and she grabbed it before it hit the ground. His eyes crinkled at the corners. She’d learned that meant he was smiling under his mask. She hadn’t kissed him yet. Pandemic, right? The snow squeaked under their boots as they walked down the middle of the street. It was too early in the morning for the sidewalks to be shoveled but the street had been plowed sometime last night while it was still snowing. What kind of idiots were out walking after a February storm?
The sun was bright and the sky was azure, no trace of the storm from last night. Not in the sky anyhow. His boots squeaked louder than hers. She’d forgotten about squeaky snow. She’d been in the south, soaking in sunlight until the marrow of her bones was liquid warmth. It had taken her about three years to reach that state and now she could tolerate the chill again.
She looked at him. His chocolate eyes focused on something across the street. He looked at her, his eyes squinting, a big grin this time. He pointed. There was a red bird on top of the snow, crest erect and head tilted.
She smiled back. She knew from studying herself in the mirror that her eyes were almost closed when she smiled. She looked like she had fallen asleep in the middle of the sentence. He looked down at the road and his long sable lashes brushed the top of his mask. Why did men have such gorgeous lashes?
He waved to her, keeping his eyes on the snow and put his finger to his masked lips. He crouched and beckoned again as he crept along the side of a parked car. She mimicked him and he pointed at the snow. She saw small dog footprints and looked at him and shrugged.
He peeked around the bumper and motioned to her. She peeked around and pressed her body against his. He pointed, but she didn’t need his finger to show her. A fox was at a snowbank. She would stick her snout in, then pull it out and tilt her head and walk a few steps. Then she jumped up and dove down into the snowbank. She came up with a mouse wriggling in her muzzle and shook her head sharply to the left and right. The mouse was done wriggling. She crunched it down and swallowed. She trotted off.
She looked for those chocolate eyes, and there were crinkles at the corners and they were squinting. That must be one mother of a grin! She laughed and bumped her shoulder into his and he returned the gesture. He stood and she followed. She spread her arms and made her eyes wide, asking where they were going.
It was his turn to laugh. He tilted his head and jogged up the street. She kept pace and made annoyed eyes at him. He tilted his head and the squinting this time was his puzzled look. Clueless? Really? She was sure he wasn’t that sort of man. The crinkles came to the corners of his eyes as he held up his gloved hand. Three fingers. Two. One.
He turned left suddenly while she jogged on for another step. Imp. That was they type of man she had expected. She caught up with him and he led her to the bottom of a hill. A kid with a sled came rocketing down the slope.
As she came even with him he started walking up the hill. They trudged along next to each other until they reached the top. She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. He shrugged, looking at her feet, but with the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. She shook her head.
They both looked downslope and saw more neighborhood kids walking toward the hill. It may be too early for shoveling, but not for sledding. The first kid they’d seen pelting down the hill stood next to them. He looked downslope, then looked at them. He held out his sled.
Her man looked at her and she shrugged. He took the sled, which was long piece of slick, green plastic that had some hand-holds machined into the front. He sat down in front and looked at her with raised eyebrows. She looked at the hill and she looked at him. She hadn’t been on sled in a very long time. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to get back on. He motioned to her and those chocolate eyes were squinting again. How could she resist that smile? She climbed on, ready for the ride of a lifetime.
782 wordsToday’s prompt is to write a story with no dialogue.