This was stormy, much more stormy than I had ever bargained for, and the reason I couldn’t find my way out after we found our way in had less to do with storms than it did with laziness. Or perhaps better to say it was something like resistance, that there was a tendency to avoid any kind of resistance, and this was going to become a problem. Eventually it would be a problem, anyway, because there was a direction that things were turning, and for it to turn out okay, there was going to have to be a difficult move in one direction. The easy way was always to just let it fall apart. But when you are in love with a child of the weather, you learn to do things in a very different way.
The first few meetings felt exactly like the first meetings should. They left me feeling rather giddy, lucky, and also a little bit confused. I knew there was something good going on here, just beneath the surface of things, and I could tell she thought so, too. We had a chemistry, and it worked up to a hotel reservation in Cape May, where we were going to get away from all distractions for a few days and figure out exactly what this was between us.
On the first night, we realized that we’d gotten stuck in the storm of the century, and it wasn’t going to stop snowing any time soon. The place was fantastic, with a gorgeous feeling of comfort and gloom, that we both seemed to like. Maybe we liked it too well, because I was starting to suspect that there was something more to her interest in the dark than just a lingering teenage goth rebellion. It stayed bad, and then it snowed another foot, and though this was unusual for Cape May, it wasn’t unheard of, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the child of the weather until that night. At 2 am, I woke up, alone, and when I looked out the window, I saw her outside, on the beach below, making snow sculptures out of all the men she’d ever loved, crying to herself.
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