Snow, Out of Season

Snow, Out of Season one scoop per customer Every August, when the city softened like wax, the old man wheeled his cart down from the mountain with the last of the winter packed in straw and sawdust, and sold snow. Not shaved ice — the cafés had machines for that, and syrup, and air conditioning. Snow. Real January snow, dense and grey-white and smelling of altitude. A single scoop, wrapped in a leaf, price negotiable and usually nothing. "What's it for?" first-timers asked. "For cooling what summer can't reach," he said, which was no answer, and the only one he gave. His customers knew. The retired teacher who held her scoop to the back of her neck and closed her eyes and was, for forty seconds, twenty-two years old and late for a train in Gangwon with everything still ahead of her. The taxi driver who bought one every year on the anniversary of his daughter's wedding, held it until it soaked

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