Two

2

WINTER

I think I’ve stopped feeling.

It’s not that I’ve turned off my emotions, but I’m pretty sure I’ve lost sense in my hands and feet.

I can almost see the blisters from the cold on my fingers inside my torn gloves and between my toes that are covered with old socks and man shoes that are a size too big, making my feet slouch with every step I take. The frigid air is even moving past the barrier of my four thin sweaters and the coat that’s three sizes too big.

Snow season hit hard this year in New York City. I feel like I’m a walking snowman with the weight of the clothes I’m wearing. None of them feel soft or protective enough, but it’s better than dying from hypothermia.

It’d be ironic if I died from the cold when my name is Winter.

Is Fate a little too cynical, or what? He must have thought of this moment when he whispered to my mom that she should name me after the coldest, harshest season.

Fate also chose the worst state to throw me in. Not only are the winters here cold, windy, and wet as hell, but the summers are also unbearable with all the humidity.

But who am I to complain? At least here, I can slip through the crowd unnoticed.

As if I don’t exist.

Invisibility is a powerful tool. In a city that harbors over eight million residents, it’s actually easy for someone like me to go unnoticed.

The cold forces me to stand out more, though. As I walk down the wet streets among the hundreds of thousands of people, I get looks sometimes. They’re not always out of pity—oftentimes, they’re judgmental. I can hear them say, You could’ve done better, young lady.

But most New Yorkers are so desensitized that they don’t give a flying fuck about a nobody like me.

I try not to focus on the people exiting bakeries with takeout, but I can’t ignore the divine smells that waft past me. I open my mouth, then close it as if that will get me a taste of the goodies.

If only I could have some hot soup right now or a warm piece of bread. I swallow the saliva that forms in my mouth at the thought. Whenever

I’m starved and don’t have access to food, I picture a table full of delicious meals and pretend that I’m feasting on them. But my stomach just believes it for half a minute before it starts growling again.

It’s hard to deceive that one.

As hungry as I am, however, what I’d really love is more to drink.

I lift the can of beer that’s wrapped in a brown paper bag and down the rest of it. There goes the final drops that were supposed to get me through my day.

It’s only the afternoon and I haven’t eaten for the last…when was it again? Two days?

Maybe I should go back to the shelter for a meal and a piece of bread… I dismiss the thought as soon as it comes. I will never return to that

place, not even if I have to sleep on the streets. I guess I should search for another shelter where I can spend the rest of the winter or else I’ll really freeze to death outside.

My feet come to a halt in front of a framed poster hanging on the side of a building. I don’t know why I stop.

I shouldn’t.

I don’t—usually.

I don’t stop and stare, because that would draw attention to me and ruin my chances of having invisibility superpowers.

But for reasons unknown, I halt this time. My empty can is nestled between my gloved fingers, suspended in mid-air as I study the ad.

The poster is for the New York City Ballet, advertising one of their performances. The entirety of it is occupied by a woman wearing a wedding

dress and standing on pointe. A veil covers her face, but it’s transparent enough to distinguish the sadness, the harshness, the…despair.

‘Giselle’ is written in script over her head. At the bottom are the names of the director and the prima ballerina, Hannah Max, as well as the other ballerinas participating in the show.

I blink once, and for a second, I can see my reflection in the glass. My coat swallows my small frame and my oversized high-top sneakers resemble clown shoes. My faux fur winter hat covers my ears, and my blonde hair is disheveled and greasy, its ends hidden inside my coat. My hat is pushed back a little, revealing my dark roots. Feeling somehow subconscious, I pull the hood of my coat over my head, allowing it to shadow my face.

Now I look like a serial killer.

Ha. I’d laugh if I could. A serial killer is smart enough to not end up on the streets. They’re smart enough to not drown so much in alcohol that sustaining a job becomes impossible.

I blink again and the poster returns to view. Giselle. Ballet. Prima ballerina.

A sudden urge to gouge the woman’s eyes out overwhelms me. I inhale, then exhale. I shouldn’t have such a strong reaction toward a stranger.

I hate her. I hate Hannah Max and Giselle and ballet.

Spinning around, I leave before I’m tempted to smash the poster to the ground.

I crumple the can and toss it in a nearby trash can. This change of mood isn’t good—at all.

It’s because of the lack of alcohol in my system. I haven’t had enough beer today to get drunk in the daylight. The cold becomes more tolerable when my mind is numb. My thoughts aren’t as loud and I don’t get murderous feelings over a harmless ballet poster.

I absentmindedly cross the street like I do every day. It’s become my routine, and I don’t even pay attention to it anymore.

That’s my mistake—taking things for granted.

I don’t hear the blaring horn until I’m standing in the middle of the street.

My feet stop in place as if heavy stones are keeping them glued to the ground. As I stare at the van’s hazard lights and hear its continuous horn, I think my twenty-seven-year-old life from birth until now will pass in front

of my eyes. That’s what happens at the time of death, right? I should recall it all.

From the moment Mom relocated us from one city to the other, until life threw me into New York.

From the moment I flourished, until the accident that turned me into an incurable alcoholic.

However, none of those memories come. Not even a fragment of them. The only things that invade my head are little toes and fingers. A tiny face and body that the nurse put in my arms before she was taken away for good.

A lump forms in my throat and I tremble like an insignificant leaf in the cold winter streets of New York.

I promised to live for her. Why the hell am I dying now? I close my eyes. I’m so sorry, baby girl. So very sorry.

A large hand grips me by the elbow and yanks me back so hard, I trip over my own feet and stumble. The same hand gently holds me by the arm to keep me standing.

I slowly open my eyes, halfway expecting to find my head under the van. But instead, the horn blasts as it passes me by, the driver screaming through the window, “Watch where you’re going, fucking crazy bitch!”

Meeting his gaze, I flip him off with my free hand and keep doing it to make sure he sees it in the rear-view mirror.

As soon as the van disappears around the corner, I start trembling again. The brief wave of adrenaline that hit me when I was being insulted withers away, and now all I can think about is that I could’ve died.

That I really would’ve let my little girl down. “Are you all right?”

I whirl around at the sound of the accented voice. For a second, I forgot that someone had pulled me out of that van’s path. That if they hadn’t, I would be dead right now.

The man, who’s Russian, judging by the subtle accent he just spoke with, stands in front of me, his hand still gripping my elbow. It’s a gentle touch compared to the brute force he used to pull me back.

He’s tall, and while most people are taller than my five-foot-four, he goes way beyond that. Probably six-two or more. He’s wearing a black shirt and pants with an open dark gray cashmere coat. It could be the colors, or the length of the coat, which reaches his knees, but he looks elegant, smart,

in a lawyer sort of way, and probably worked as a model to pay his college tuition.

His face tells a different story, however. Not that he’s not handsome, because he is, with sharp, angular features that fit his model body. He has high cheekbones that cast a shadow on his thick-stubbled jaw.

His eyes are an intense shade of gray that’s bordering on black. The color of his clothes could be intensifying their appearance, though. The fact remains that they’re too…uncomfortable to look at. You know when something or someone is so beautiful it actually aches inside to look at them? That’s this stranger. Peering into his eyes, however bizarre they are, hits me with a feeling of inferiority that I can’t shake off.

Although his words conveyed concern, I see none written in his facial expression. No empathy that most people are capable of.

But at the same time, he doesn’t seem like the type who’d feign worry. If anything, he’d be like the rest of the passers-by who barely looked in the direction of the near-traffic accident.

I should be feeling grateful, but the only thing I want is to escape from his clutches and his uneasy eyes. His deep, imploring eyes that are decrypting my face, little by little.

Piece by each tiny piece.

“I’m okay,” I manage, twisting my elbow free.

His brow furrows, but it’s brief, almost unnoticeable, before he goes back to his previous expression, letting me go as gently as he was gripping me. I expect him to turn around and leave so that I can chalk up the entire experience to an unlucky winter afternoon.

But he just stands there, unmoving, unblinking, not making one single step in any direction. Instead, he chooses to watch me, his thick brows drawing over his eyes that I really don’t want to be staring into, but I find myself dragged into their savage gray anyway.

They’re like the harshness of the clouds above and the merciless gust of the wind from every direction. I can pretend they don’t exist, but they still make me lose the feeling of my limbs. They give me blisters and pain.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again, and for some reason, it feels like he wants me to tell him I’m not.

But why? And to what end?

I’m just one of thousands of homeless people in this city. A man like him, who’s surrounded by an impenetrable air of confidence, hinting that

he’s in some prominent position, shouldn’t have even looked in my direction.

But he did.

And now, he’s asking if I’m okay. Being used to invisibility makes me feel fidgety when I’m suddenly visible.

Ever since this Russian stranger gripped me by the arm, there’s been an itch under my skin, urging me to jump back to the shadows.

Now.

“Yeah,” I blurt. “Thank you.”

I’m about to turn and leave when the authority in his voice stops me. “Wait.”

My big shoes make a squeaky sound on the concrete when I follow his command. I normally wouldn’t. I’m not good at listening to orders, which is why I’m in this state.

But something in his tone gets my attention.

He reaches into his coat and two scenarios burst through my head. The first is that he’ll pull out a gun and shoot me in the head for disrespecting him. The second is that he’ll treat me like many others and give me money.

That sense of inferiority hits again. While I usually accept change from people to buy my beer, I don’t beg for it. The idea of taking this stranger’s money makes me feel dirty, less than invisible and more like a speck of dust on his black leather shoes.

I intend to refuse his money, but he only retrieves a handkerchief and places it in my hand. “You have something on your face.”

His skin brushes against my gloves for a second, and though the contact is brief, I see it.

A wedding ring on his left finger.

I bunch the piece of cloth in my hand and nod in thanks. I don’t know why I expected him to smile or even offer a nod in return.

He doesn’t.

His eyes penetrate mine for a few seconds, then he turns around and leaves.

Just like that.

He’s erased me from his unlucky afternoon and is now going back to his wife.

Considering the extreme discomfort I felt in his presence, I figured I’d be relieved when he left.

On the contrary, it feels as if my breast bone is digging into the sensitive flesh of my heart.

What the hell?

I stare at the handkerchief he placed in my hand. It has the letters A.V.

embroidered on it and appears to be handmade. Something of value.

Why would he even give me this?

Something on your face.

There’s a lot of shit on my face. A layer of dirt, actually. Since I haven’t been in a public restroom for some time. Did he really think a freaking handkerchief would be the solution?

Pissed off at him and at my reaction toward him, I toss the handkerchief in a trash can and storm in the opposite direction.

I need a hot meal and a bed tonight, and if it means meeting the devil again to have them, so be it.