In the still of a frigid night we met, two strangers on a snow covered quad. Through the fog from my own breath her eyes flared wild shades of green. Over two cups of hot chocolate our souls warmed, a romance for the ages, or so my tender, impressionable mind thought at the time.

“I have to finish something,” was her only explanation, just before the thaw of Spring took the pristine blanket of white from fantasy. “I’ll be back in time,” was her only promise.

Sloshing, slurping, and splashing soothed me for a time. New life, new hope, and all that crock. A distraction at best.

Summer came, and with its taunting sun time began to burn. Doubt consumed idealized love, painting it as a fool’s infatuation. Resentment crept in, selfishness for selfishness. The longer she took, the more my insecurities razed hope to a charred stump.

By Fall I was done, done with her, the idea of her, and love itself. All I could do was pray for the welcome cold of Winter once again, to feel its sting and forget my pain.