How I wish I am somewhere out there, in cold, freezing Europe.

London, Florence, Venice, Paris, wherever.

Pierce by the icy winds, squeeze the life out of me as I lapped my trenchcoat tighter, as I stroll in the blizzard storm, into a warm home with big glassed windows.

The prettily-shaped white snow shall fall into the midst of my hair, sending chills to all parts of me through the scalp.

I will brush the flaks off my coat, as I rubbed my chilled hands together, after releasing them from the warmth of the tight leather gloves.

My nose would be red and cold, as I sniffed the coldness in deeply. The nose would run, no doubt.

I shall brew a pot of Earl Grey and sat by the window, watching the world being painted a shade of pure, glaring white, layer, by layer.

Aha! Here comes the untypical.

It shall not be jazz on the stereo this time.

Some heavy metal music would be cool. Get the spirits masquerading.

The man shall then take his place next to me, on the cosy couch, and gave a reassuring tight cuddle from the back, planting soft kisses on my neck as he embraced me from behind, as I lean on him, in between his legs.

A nice movie shall follow, on the 42-inch plasma television hanging by the wall, as we snuggle close on the royalty-like bed. Big, high from the ground, soft and gentle on the skin.

Gentle yet passionate pecks on the forehead, as we tuck in deeper into the duvet, gather deeper into each other’s embrace, as our toes tickled by the felt sheets.

As the snow comes down swiftly, picking up its pace, masking the world, never would we feel so protected, and detached.

Right then. An impulse hits.

As I pulls his hand, grabs a coat randomly, we shall venture into the open, merging with the picture of white.

Laughing, jostling, kicking, giggling, tickling, bantering, having one hellavu snow fight.

Without a care. Burdenless.

Stopping for an occasional kiss or cuddle.

We would then, dance in the snow.

The time of our lives.

However brief.