The First Snow: A Short Story

Like most people, she didn’t know that she needed an angel more than she needed the key.

The outside door clicked open, and she tiptoed quietly into the office and stepped behind the antique desk. Silent nights did not like to be disturbed.

She reached into the top drawer and reappeared with the key… to the tuition box. She dropped it back into the desk and fumbled around in the streetlight that shone through the glass door until her fingers wrapped around a larger key. She stuffed it into the right-hand legwarmer and ran softly down the hall.

At the end, she pressed her forehead against the wooden door. The key came out, clicked three times to the left, and she found herself inside the walls of her beloved studio. The door was closed once more, and she let out a long sigh of relief. She hadn’t woken the neighbors this year.

It was the night of the first snow. For what felt like forever and a day, it had been her tradition: get into the studio and dance the part of Clara before morning. One of those strange ideas that come over people as Christmas approaches. Act one was complete while act two watched anxiously.

She peeled off her outdoor slippers to reveal her ballet shoes. Her pointed feet stepped farther into the room as the shadows of falling snowflakes graced the marley floor. Half of each of her legs were wrapped in a fuzzy, purple legwarmer. She wore a black leotard, covered in an old and tattered sweater. Her golden curls fell about her shoulders like expensive rings.

She plugged her iPod into the stereo and pressed play on The Nutcracker track. The sky was swelling into a deep and endless blue—morning was on its way. She thought she could hear the snowflakes whispering, “Clara, Clara, Clara.”

And so, she began.

When she came to Clara’s pas de deux, she bent over the stereo to skip to another solo. But the iPod froze, and when she stood again, frustrated, she found that she was no longer in the studio alone, but that there was a young man, slightly taller than she, standing before her.

“I do believe that this dance requires a partner,” he said.

She should have said nothing, should have left, should have driven away. But she had read too many stories. She was too trusting of strangers. And she did indeed need a dance partner. So, she said, “Are you volunteering?”

He held out his hand as the music sprang to life once more.

As they began the arabesque sequence, he said simply, “You’ve practiced this.”

“An impossible number of times.”

“Nothing is impossible,” he said.

She frowned but kept dancing.

They danced in circles, in lines and in indistinguishable patterns. The music came quite suddenly to a halt. The dance was complete.

She smiled contently and unplugged the iPod. “Thank you,” she said to the young man.

He bowed.

She stood in silence. He stood in silence. She began to tiptoe toward the door. He caught up with her and opened it wide. “Thank you,” she repeated, looking back into his face.

He smiled and motioned her out of the studio.

She took off her ballet shoes and stuffed them into an overhead cubby. Instinctively, she curtsied to the young man, but when she rose, he was nowhere to be found.

A dream? It could not be. He had been there—she was sure.

She ran out into the freezing air of a winter morning in the city, her outdoor slippers covered in sticky snow. To the right and to the left she turned, but the young man had disappeared.

Delusional. And soon to be late for work.

She locked the doors, hailed a cab and directed her path toward home.

They drove past restaurants, parks, sparkling corporate buildings and came to a crosswalk. The cab stopped to let the pedestrians cross. Among this mob of people was the young man, slightly taller than she.

Grabbing her things and leaving a sum of money on the seat, she jumped out of the cab and ran for the crosswalk.

He was gone. The cab drove away.

Ridiculous.

Irritated and numb with cold, she walked to the corner bakery. Once inside, she scrutinized the treats behind the counter. Ready to order, she looked up and found none other than the young man, slightly taller than she. “You…!” she began, but he ducked behind the counter and didn’t reappear.

She burst out of the bakery, back into the cold. I’m losing my mind, she thought to herself.

Turning painfully into a popsicle, she stood on the corner, waiting for another cab to come. She saw the yellow blur of a frozen taxi in the distance and waited for it to near, rocking anxiously onto her heels. She waved the vehicle down, huffing and puffing warm air into her other palm all the while. When it stopped, she bent inside and said coldly, “To Sugar Pine Street please.”

The driver said nothing, and she said nothing more. When they reached Sugar Pine Street, she stepped out of the cab. As she fumbled through her pocketbook, the driver rolled down his window. She found exact change and reached out her hand, looking directly into the driver’s face.

She shook her head—it was unmistakable. There was the young man—again! “Who are you?” she demanded, gripping her money firmly as he held the other end of the bill between two fingers.

“I am a simple pedestrian, a baker for some, a driver for others,” he replied, folding the money back into her palm.  “And for you, Mary, I am the Nutcracker.”

And then he was gone.