When they woke, it was not yet dawn and they could see the snow falling in the light of the lamp outside the window opposite their bed. They woke together, as they often did, and for a few moments they silently held each other and watched the big flakes swirling in the yellow light. Gusts of wind drove the snow sideways, and some of the flakes stuck to the corners of the window.
“Kisses from heaven,” she said.
“Kisses from heaven,” she said.
“How’s that?” Her head was on his shoulder and he touched her hair with his lips and breathed in her fragrance.
“Someone once called snowflakes kisses from heaven.”
“Kisses from heaven,” the man repeated. He was still half-asleep, but he smiled at the woman beside him in the darkness and he could tell she felt him smiling because she raised her head and kissed him on the lips and then snuggled into him again.
“That was a kiss from heaven too.”
“Tu sei pazzo,” she said, stroking his chest with her fingers.
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re a fool.”
He laughed, softly because of the falling snow. “I married you.”
She brought herself up on one elbow to look him in the face. “There. You see. A fool.”
“An old fool, in fact.”
“Yes. An old fool.”
He couldn’t see her eyes in the darkness, but he could see the cut of her face and the way her hair fell across her cheek. He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Fortunately, I have a special affection for old fools."
He was fifty-seven and the woman had just celebrated her forty-first birthday. They had met in Rome two years before, when he was finishing up a sabbatical from the university and she was a docent conducting private tours of Rome’s churches. He had loved her from the first moment of that tour. She carried herself like a ballerina or a princess, and her eyes sparkled with a vivacity he found irresistible. Just looking at her that first morning made him smile. As she led him and an older couple from Indiana through the streets and churches, waving and calling out to various shopkeepers and carbinieri, she left in her wake a scent of sunshine and flowers.
“Only now you’re stuck with me.”
“I’m not stuck.”
“I feel sorry for you being married to me.”
He couldn’t think of a reply. For a moment sorrow twisted like an illness inside his gut and head, but he pushed away the sadness and held her tightly.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you most.”
“Yes, I know.”
It was one of the old jokes between them, concocted less than a week after he had asked her to supper at the end of the tour. He had taken her to the Gruppo Di Rienzo, where they had shared a bottle of wine, eaten spaghetti carbonara, and watched the tourists passing through the square and in and out of the Pantheon. Whenever the man thought of that evening, he remembered the heat and the twilight in the square and the tired waiter and how the woman had tilted her head listening while he told her about his past and his dead wife and his two grown children.
She herself had never married, though she’d had a child, a toddler who had drowned in a friend’s backyard pool in San Diego. Her agony and guilt over her daughter’s death had driven the woman first to Boston, where she worked as a legal secretary while staying with her sister’s family, and then to Rome, where she had conducted tours for the past three years, supplementing that income with an inheritance left her by her father.
They had known each other only two weeks when he asked her to come back to Charlottesville with him. She shook her head. “This city has become my home. Why don’t you stay here?”
“You know I can’t do that.”
When she began weeping, the man knew she would stay in Rome, and a vise of pain gripped his heart so intensely he put his right hand to his chest.
They had parted at Fiumicino at the end of July, and he’d entered the passenger waiting room with her tears wetting his shirt like accusations. From then until Christmas, they emailed each other, skyped and chatted online, and exchanged phone calls. Then in the new year she had decided to come to him and they had lived in this house in the country outside of the town ever since.
Four months ago, the news from the doctors had triggered his proposal. At first the woman had refused him, shaking her head at what lay between them and the abrupt disappearance of possibility and a future together, but by evening, when she realized he was implacable in his demand, she agreed to marriage.
“Don’t you ever give up?” she’d asked.
“Not on you.”
“You're a fool to marry me.”
“We’ll see.”
“You know what’s going to happen.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re asking for trouble.”
“You’re the best kind of trouble.”
Now, in this room in their house, holding her, the man felt an enormous gratitude. The sorrow inside him had not yet returned, and he thought how every day with her was a blessing. He pulled her even closer to him, and she held him tightly.
“You want some coffee?” he asked.
“In a little while.”
“You sleepy?”
“No. Just tired. Same old same old. But I don’t want to waste time sleeping. Let’s watch the snow.”
He turned his face from her and watched the flakes of snow falling and falling in the golden light, whirling in the wind.
“I love the snow,” the woman said suddenly, fiercely. “Look how it covers everything. It makes the whole world pure and mysterious and beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”
“Promise me you’ll remember how much I loved the snow.”
“I’ll remember,” the man said. “I’ll remember everything.”
“Someone once called snowflakes kisses from heaven.”
“Kisses from heaven,” the man repeated. He was still half-asleep, but he smiled at the woman beside him in the darkness and he could tell she felt him smiling because she raised her head and kissed him on the lips and then snuggled into him again.
“That was a kiss from heaven too.”
“Tu sei pazzo,” she said, stroking his chest with her fingers.
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re a fool.”
He laughed, softly because of the falling snow. “I married you.”
She brought herself up on one elbow to look him in the face. “There. You see. A fool.”
“An old fool, in fact.”
“Yes. An old fool.”
He couldn’t see her eyes in the darkness, but he could see the cut of her face and the way her hair fell across her cheek. He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Fortunately, I have a special affection for old fools."
He was fifty-seven and the woman had just celebrated her forty-first birthday. They had met in Rome two years before, when he was finishing up a sabbatical from the university and she was a docent conducting private tours of Rome’s churches. He had loved her from the first moment of that tour. She carried herself like a ballerina or a princess, and her eyes sparkled with a vivacity he found irresistible. Just looking at her that first morning made him smile. As she led him and an older couple from Indiana through the streets and churches, waving and calling out to various shopkeepers and carbinieri, she left in her wake a scent of sunshine and flowers.
“Only now you’re stuck with me.”
“I’m not stuck.”
“I feel sorry for you being married to me.”
He couldn’t think of a reply. For a moment sorrow twisted like an illness inside his gut and head, but he pushed away the sadness and held her tightly.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you most.”
“Yes, I know.”
It was one of the old jokes between them, concocted less than a week after he had asked her to supper at the end of the tour. He had taken her to the Gruppo Di Rienzo, where they had shared a bottle of wine, eaten spaghetti carbonara, and watched the tourists passing through the square and in and out of the Pantheon. Whenever the man thought of that evening, he remembered the heat and the twilight in the square and the tired waiter and how the woman had tilted her head listening while he told her about his past and his dead wife and his two grown children.
She herself had never married, though she’d had a child, a toddler who had drowned in a friend’s backyard pool in San Diego. Her agony and guilt over her daughter’s death had driven the woman first to Boston, where she worked as a legal secretary while staying with her sister’s family, and then to Rome, where she had conducted tours for the past three years, supplementing that income with an inheritance left her by her father.
They had known each other only two weeks when he asked her to come back to Charlottesville with him. She shook her head. “This city has become my home. Why don’t you stay here?”
“You know I can’t do that.”
When she began weeping, the man knew she would stay in Rome, and a vise of pain gripped his heart so intensely he put his right hand to his chest.
They had parted at Fiumicino at the end of July, and he’d entered the passenger waiting room with her tears wetting his shirt like accusations. From then until Christmas, they emailed each other, skyped and chatted online, and exchanged phone calls. Then in the new year she had decided to come to him and they had lived in this house in the country outside of the town ever since.
Four months ago, the news from the doctors had triggered his proposal. At first the woman had refused him, shaking her head at what lay between them and the abrupt disappearance of possibility and a future together, but by evening, when she realized he was implacable in his demand, she agreed to marriage.
“Don’t you ever give up?” she’d asked.
“Not on you.”
“You're a fool to marry me.”
“We’ll see.”
“You know what’s going to happen.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re asking for trouble.”
“You’re the best kind of trouble.”
Now, in this room in their house, holding her, the man felt an enormous gratitude. The sorrow inside him had not yet returned, and he thought how every day with her was a blessing. He pulled her even closer to him, and she held him tightly.
“You want some coffee?” he asked.
“In a little while.”
“You sleepy?”
“No. Just tired. Same old same old. But I don’t want to waste time sleeping. Let’s watch the snow.”
He turned his face from her and watched the flakes of snow falling and falling in the golden light, whirling in the wind.
“I love the snow,” the woman said suddenly, fiercely. “Look how it covers everything. It makes the whole world pure and mysterious and beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”
“Promise me you’ll remember how much I loved the snow.”
“I’ll remember,” the man said. “I’ll remember everything.”