Wedding Date

Snow falls—goodbye good trails—and Bridgeport glitters in the grey light. The sky, white and pouring snowflakes, swallows the sun. The sun backlights the white, warms the clouds like a candle heats winter dinner.

Justin and I sit, holding hands, in Travertine Hot Spring. I tingle, and Justin, nose to the sky, faces the sun-glow. His face catches snowflakes. Steam rises from the hot spring, melts each snowflake before it hits the pool. Snow drapes our towels, the ground, the Sierras—not a misplaced stitch.

Snow fits Bridgeport like a custom gown.

“Let’s set a date,” I say.

Justin’s eyes are closed. The snowlight defines his right cheekbone. I kiss it. “Soon,” I say.

“December.” He opens his eyes and turns his cheeks to me. “In the mountains.”