“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment,
then where is it to be found?”
—J.B. Priestley
Theophile Lekas gazed out over the crowd in the nightclub. He took another swallow of his third mojito. The taste was all right, but it wasn’t the reason he drank them. The crushed ice was what made his spirit sing—or something along those lines. Words had never been his thing. The beauty of ice was something that couldn’t be described, and should people failed to see it, the world would come to an end.
He rubbed his chest, the cold from the drink made him shiver, and looked out over the sea of dancing people. Perhaps too small to be called a sea—pond?—words again. H
