Like Ghost in Snow: Chapter One

I was absolutely sure of three things as I left Franz Dunnigan's Drawing for Illustration class that blustery Thursday night: Bugs Bunny was harder to draw than he looked, Franz Dunnigan is out of his fucking mind, and Lenore Venustas was the most beautiful woman in the world.1

Actually, make that four things. I was nursing a killer headache after the Psychology midterm I had taken that morning and Tylenol was way too wimpy to deal with it. But that's beside the point.2

The point is Lenore. I couldn't figure her out. She was so beautiful, with her deep auburn hair that flowed in perfect curls around her angelic face down to her tiny waist, her blue eyes so magnetic that whoever was lucky enough to meet them was completely mesmerized, her skin this luscious, creamy color, her lips a deep rose. She was breathtaking.3

But that was the problem. No woman could possibly be that lovely and have no friends, but Lenore... she was always alone.4

I saw her around a lot at the community college just outside of Belle View, Maine, but DFI was the only class I actually shared with her. She never followed the assignment, but it wasn't like Dunnigan cared: who could say no to an angel?5

The thing was, though, I wasn't some sick perv checking out her, ahem, assets, though there was absolutely nothing wrong with her assets, believe me. No, the thing was that she was inspiring, if that doesn't sound too corny. If I was having issues with a drawing or whatever, I could just watch her for a few moments, watch the gentility of her movements, the grace with which she went about the tasks of the day, and everything was fine. I couldn't figure it out.6

"Alright, people," Dunnigan's voice, which reminded me ever-so-slightly of nails on a chalkboard, broke through the tranquil silence, the sound of pencils against paper. "It's ten thirty. I'll be happy if you're out by eleven, if you're working on something. Otherwise, out with you."7

My headache was not subsiding, otherwise I probably would have stayed until eleven... mostly because Dunnigan drove me nuts, so I liked to bother him. I guess it was something I never grew out of.8

Lenore placed everything inside her black leather bag and glided out the door, wrapping a white scarf around her neck and buttoning her grey coat as she went. I shoved my stuff back into my portfolio and scurried out, not seeing her as we walked toward the parking lot.9

'Damn, she's fast,' I thought, shrugging it off. Not like I would ever get the courage to actually talk to her.10

It wasn't like I was a shy dude. I wasn't. I just didn't feel the need to talk to people unless absolutely necessary. It was different with Lenore: something about her just told everyone to back off.11

Which is why it surprised me when I saw her leaning against the driver's door of my near-dead Chevy truck (a gift from my grandfather for graduation... it, like him, had seen better days).12

The even bigger surprise, though, was that she was glaring at me. I'm not kidding. Turn-you-to-dust kind of glaring.13

I shifted uneasily, not really knowing what to say, but knowing that a simple 'hello' was less than appropriate.14

"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked. I had never heard her voice before, and it was not what I expected: so gentle, with this edge beneath it as sharp as a razorblade.15

"Pardon?" The headache was scrambling my brain.16

She took a decidedly sharp step toward me. "Why," she repeated, "do you stare at me in there?"17

I felt like I was climbing a mountain and my handhold had just crumbled. I scrambled for another. "I... what? I don't, I mean, I didn't--"18

With one more decided step, she was only inches from me, having to crane her neck to look up at me. She was tall, and wearing boots, but I'd always been quite the sasquatch. "Do not lie to me."19

Her voice, as she said those words, gave me flashbacks to my mother interrogating me after I came home wasted after going to a friend's house. It didn't end well for me, let's just say.20

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice coming out surprisingly wimpy. It wasn't like I was just going to freak out and be like, 'Woman! Shut yo mouth!"21

I know, bad joke.22

"You're not," she said. "But you are drawing unwanted attention to me. And I do not particularly like unwanted attention." Her blue eyes were so icy that I took a step back. What the hell?23

"I'll tell you what," she said when I didn't reply, stepping close to me again, but there was nowhere for me to back up: my car was behind me. She reached up, lightning quick, and placed her cold hand around my chin, her fingertips on my cheek, "you don't stare at me in class, I'll let you off with a warning."24

"Are you nuts?" I asked her, quite rationally, I think.25

She smirked, her perfect lips curling up on one side. "Maybe," she said, and tightened her grip on my face, digging her nails into my skin. I felt the cold sting of pain and the drops of blood that beaded up on the surface as she took her hand away. "Do we have an accord?"26

"Sure, whatever!" I said, my mind on a constant stream of 'whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.'27

She smiled, so pleasantly I thought that she was going to laugh like it was a big joke. "Good, then that's settled. Goodbye, Jeremy Cage."28

She knew my name. Why did she know my name?29

I stared after her, my jaw practically unhinged, barely hearing the sound of her heeled boots clacking against the pavement as she walked away.