I sit with Luke on top of our boulder in Central Park, panting like horses after a race.
“Hey, remember when I crushed you with that snowball?” I say, adjusting my ski-goggles “Yeah, that was awesome,” I say with a nudge. I smile at him, trying to soften the blow. He hates losing. Luke gazes off, lost in thought. His blue, woolen hat is white with snow and his cheeks look sun-kissed from the wind.
The snow is still coming down just as it has been all day and all last night. The biggest snowstorm New York City has on record. Even the subways have shut down. The wind pushes snow flurries against our backs and around our ears. It sounds like all the pigeons have been replaced with wolves and they are howling in unison.
This isn’t our first snowy adventure. Last year we built a life-sized snow-bear. We had spent hours on the Promenade rolling giant heaps of snow back and forth, lit by streetlamps and the city skyline. When we’d finally gathered enough snow for a body and head, we packed on two little oval ears and a snout.
Just as I was starting to carve out the bear’s little eyes, Luke surprised me with two Mallowmars from the pocket of his ski-pants. Famished from pushing snow around for hours, I reached out to shove one of the round, chocolate-covered prizes in my mouth and he quickly snatched his hand back.
“They’re for the eyes,” he said. Of course, they are, I thought, mildly disappointed. This guy doesn’t miss a beat. After a moment, Luke gave me sly look and reached back into the pocket of his ski-pants. Two more Mallowmars.
My eyes grew bigger than the treats in his hand as I took one and ate it. The first bite dissolved like melting snow in my mouth. The thin, chocolate covering disappeared, giving way to the squishy sweetness of the mallow. The fluffy center filled my cheeks like a hamster’s while the soft cookie had quickly crumbled to butter.
Sitting on the boulder, now hungry from the thought of Mallowmars, I mindlessly tap the snow from my heels.
“Ready to go already?” says Luke.
“We’ve been out for hours,” I whine.
“Ah, Hungry Lucy,” he says with a grin.
“You got me,” I say, resting my feet. We sit for a while in silence, listening to the wind. The city is eerily peaceful in the snow. The crowds of people are inside binging on Netflix, beer, pizza and each other while the birds are nestled in the alcoves. The only cars that dare to drive are plows and the bravest of cabs. They crunch by, wheels barely turning, scouring the empty streets for a buck.
Luke starts to wriggle, prying something out of the back of his ski-pants. Thank God, I think, he brought snacks, and I don’t even care that they’re smooshed. He struggles, shifting from butt cheek to butt cheek, both trying not to fall off the boulder and desperate to free the surprise from his pocket.
His gloves are resting on his lap. I wait for his hand to emerge like a fox at a molehill, salivating. Luke finally pulls his hand free giving me a glimpse of that chocolate-covered top. Mallowmars, I think, classic. But as he brings his fist around to the front, the candy within looks different. Where is the glossy top? The domed chocolate shell looks firm and flat between his thumb and forefinger. Luke grips it with too much force.
It should be crushed in his palm, oozing white mallow between his fingers. My eyes crawl their way from Luke’s fist to his wrist, up his arm and over his ski-pass from two years ago. His shoulder resembles a mountain capped with snow, his striped scarf is wet and his chin, sprinkled with stubble, is the most of his face I can see.
Luke’s teeth look like piano keys, dancing in the streetlight. He reaches up and lifts his ski-goggles to his forehead.
“What is this?” I say, still hungry. Luke opens his hand revealing a small box sitting on his palm. He smiles that way he does when he thinks he’s got me, or when he’s told a bad joke. The wind whips my hair over my eyes and into my gaping mouth. Luke pulls back the lid of the box.
“A Mallomar,” I say, grinning. “You really know how to treat a lady.”
