Though for some unknown reason this story didn't win the erotic category the judges did say..."The image of a woman 'twirling and laughing at fleeing ghosts, batting them with her hands and tongue', for example, is haunting......."

The distorted scene was a silent city mottled golden by shadow snowflakes in amber streetlight. The only sound was unheard winds of little twisting devils.

A daughter of warm sea sun but not unfamiliar to snow, "Snow properly belongs in the mountains to be viewed from afar", she teased. Her cold forehead flattened by the glass, shined moist and flush pink.

We meandered the streets pushing wedges in the shin deep snow, eyes shining from the mystery and the sharing of silence. Through the ice glazed bar windows exuberant late night poets could be seen in last call frenzy.

We climbed over the stone wall and through the brambles, fruitless ‘till spring. Beneath were Strawberry Fields unmarked but the trace of a brave squirrel painting playful hunger. 

I sat under a park lamp meaninglessly contemplating this wonder of nature and man. She danced and danced, twirling and laughing at fleeing ghosts, batting them with her hands and tongue.

Awakened, she shivered before me, only her laced black boots remaining. A crown of white fluff on her dark hair; shoulder and breast jeweled with small melted opals and eyes with moonlight fire, a sculpture. 

"Warm me," was what she gave me.