I remember another winter when the snow also fell.

I was far away from home. For a week, I lay every night with another man. There was no question of sex. My lack of desire in this respect was, at least partially, understood.

I had rarely been so content, as the world outside turned white. Or at least that’s how I remember it. The memory may not stand up well to scrutiny.

It was a story made for winter. It began to die in the spring. He wanted to be desired by everyone. I wanted to walk through trees and see plants from other worlds. You can’t bridge a gulf like that. It was foolish to even try. I could no more be other than my nature than he could.

Every spring since then has taken me further from that winter, which is as it should be.

The snow is falling and I wonder what new story it will bring.

Damian Mark Whittle