"What is snow?" she asked. I started to realize that running away into the city wasn't going to work so well with a new emigre out of south Florida. Or, as she put it, North Cuba.But I ignored her question, pretending her accent was too thick to understand. I gave her my best happy grin type of smile and nodded my head. She didn’t ask me anything else. She didn’t need to speak because her beauty spoke volumes. Beautiful was an insult for what I carried in my boat with me here. I wanted her for myself, hell I wanted them all but especially her. That’s why I got paid the big money, because I had the eye for the superiorly beautiful. It didn’t matter she had grime under her nails or that her clothes were probably hand me downs from the Americans late nineties she was like a Picasso wrapped in dated wet newspaper. My find for the year. Yeah, sip that American Coca-Cola. Let it be your first taste of freedom, PCP filled heaven. By midnight I’ll have her ass drugged out and sold for twenty thousand. I’ll be in the big bucks for sure baby.
“What is snow?" she asked. I started to realize that running away into the city wasn't going to work so well with a new emigre out of south Florida. Or, as she put it, North Cuba.“It’s like rain that stays in place,” I mumbled, my mind distracted more by concerns about how good an idea this whole plan was going to work than by Emmie’s child-like curiosity.“You mean like a lake or something?”“No, not like a lake,” I snapped. “Haven’t ever seen TV?”“Sure, lots.”“And you don’t know what snow is?”“Look, if you can’t take a joke, I don’t think this plan is such a good idea,” Emmie returned with attitude suddenly equal to mine.“You were joking?” I felt my anger start to ebb.“No.”“Oh, for crying out loud.”“I’m from North Cuba, what do I know about snow?”“That makes you warm, not stupid,” I protested. “Do you know what palm trees are? I don’t think so.”“Yes,” I told her stiffly. “I actually do know what palm trees are. I’ve seen TV.”“So you know how pineapples grow on palm trees?”“Yes,” I answered, just as stiffly, “I know how pineapples grow on palm trees.”“Well they don’t,” she spat. “So you don’t know what you think you know, because you ain’t never lived there.”I was silent.“So,” Emmie said, her voice sweet and fiery, “what is snow?”I paused. Considered. Then answers, “It’s like rain that’s turned into frosty bits of ice so small that it’s soft. It looks beautiful when it’s falling, and it makes a really fun crunching sound when you walk on it. It’s almost magical how it deadens sound when its fresh. It’s like the world is born again, fresh and clean.” “Sounds nice,” she smiled.