I imagine Romeo and Juliet set in a winter wonderland, the star-crossed lovers building a snowman in the meadow and pretending it’s the friar.
I wonder if cooler heads would prevail in a cooler world, then I slap myself across the cheek as penance for the cliché, for the pun.
It’s not a story without a but or a yet, I remind myself. The snowman might’ve married them when he came to town, and they might’ve conspired as they dreamt by a fire, but no. The other kiddies will always knock down poor Frosty before he can take poor R and J to church. They have to. They are meant to. It’s their destiny.