Snow Covers Everything

Aleix Tura Vecino

 

 

To Fiona

Late at night, she tells me she’s upset. We lie in bed —each one our own— and hold our phones in front of our faces, which paints them blue in the darkened rooms. We send each other voice notes. We prefer them to texts because they make us feel closer to one another than we actually are (1667 km away, in straight line). She tells me she’s upset because, for the second night in a row, her cat Brody has been ignoring her. He has gone to sleep in her flatmate’s room, leaving her, in her own words, alone and unprotected and unloved. He’s a cheating fat pig, she says, and titters at the end of the sentence so that I know that, obviously, she’s not being completely serious. Obviously. But I know she’s not joking either: there is a trace of quivering in the voice that comes out through the speaker. She sees that the anecdote is silly, but wants me to understand that the feelings it incites in her are absolutely grave. And I do understand this. I get lonely too. This is why I decide to tell her about the snow. The snow is our little trick to make us feel like we are next to one another when we are a bit downhearted. I say to her, You know, darling, it’s been snowing all day here, and everything is covered in white and it’s cold. This is how it starts. She knows immediately what I’m about and, as if I had just pressed some sort of magic button, she drops the cat subject at once. She says, Are you cold, sweet? Wish I were there to warm you up. That’d be nice… First, we spend some time sketching the scenario where things will take place. It’s mostly just one of our rooms, but we add a number of elements to it to better fulfil our fantasies. Like candles, or specific music, or a bit of alcohol. We sometimes place red wine and a couple of glasses in each other’s imagination; or, if we are feeling fancy, we might evoke a bottle with a little bit of amber-coloured whisky inside. It’s lovely to imagine whisky, especially in contrast with the snow. When we do so, she then invariably pictures herself getting close to me and tasting the dark oaky flavour of the liquid straight from my lips and tongue. Then we undress, both in our fiction and in our reality. In our fiction, we do it slowly and by parts. We let each other know how it feels to run our fingers through the suddenly vulnerable skin. To simulate the feeling of this, we use our own fingers and, closing our eyes, pretend they belong to the other’s hand. A hand that moves timidly from the neck to the shoulder and from the shoulder to the chest, where it spends some time before continuing its journey down south. She lets me know how hard her nipples are, and what she’d like me to do with them. Lick, suck, nibble. As I imagine them in my mouth I too imagine my fingertips sinking in the soft skin of her hip and her buttock. My cock is pressed against her thigh. She tells me she wants to grab it, feel its stiffness in her palm. At the same time she says this, I encircle it and start pulling the skin up and down very gently, with infinite patience. I figure out she is wet, but I ask her anyways because I like it when she lets me know. I then describe the touch: the parting of the lips with my middle finger and the slow massaging that follows. The occasional going in, and the stroking outside. The accelerating speed of the movements. She says she wants me inside, now; wants to feel me pressuring against her walls. I don’t make her wait, I want it as much as she does. I penetrate her and, as I do so, my hand becomes her vagina, her fingers, my cock. Words melt from here onwards. We try to communicate our movements, but sentences fail to make sense. They are gradually turned into jumbled strings of sounds from which only fuck, shit or God emerge intelligibly every now and then. Sometimes we say our names too. Messages get interrupted here and there by deep breathing noises and consonants liquidise into moaning vowels, the pitch of which heightens with every new voice note we send. Small boxes of sound capturing pleasure, and other, more complicated feelings. Finally, one of us sends a longer voice message, and we know that’s the end, the climax that articulates union and fulfilment. Or their appearance, at least. We listen to it invariably finding it too short, wishing it went on all night through. But, eventually, it ends. It ends and what follows is growing silence. The progressive vanishing of echoes floating in the air. After a minute or two our rooms get so quiet that we can even hear the delicate sound of the snow falling outside —although it’s not really snowing. And it’s only when that sound too disappears that we speak. I tell her I’m next to her. I tell her she shouldn’t get lonely and that her cat will, no doubt, come back to her tomorrow. She laughs. She says, Brody is right next to me at the moment; he must have heard me screaming. I laugh and we go to sleep under the illusion that we are together, which will melt at some point near the morning.

 

 

Originally from Mollet, Catalonia, Aleix Tura Vecino is a first year PhD student in English Literature studying short stories and writing them whenever he can, however he can, in whatever language he can.

 

Image by Chloe Henderson.

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