Athenian Snow

She did not tell me—she may have said it in Greek—that it will be snowing in Athens. I dislike snow, no matter that I have lived most of my life in Canada—gone now informally but salvageable with the right fate. I have no faith or belief in anything except for love, and I mean the Anthi-and-M kind, not the dead Romeo and Juliet at the end, both. I never felt it to be romantic. There is nothing romantic about dying. It was a tragedy, of course, but Anthi and M is a tragedy too, except that nothing tragic has occurred yet. Someone must die or disappear, especially in reality; I mean, fiction. Actually, one of the narrators disappeared. It was expected by the writer, but it was sad. Eléni was loved, even by Goddess Athena, who had renamed her so. At least, I can bring Eléni back, whereas reality is much more complicated. Free will is a poor game, even worse than true or false. The human condition speaks volumes along its bloody history and uncertain future. The weather condition, on the other hand, also a poor game, relies on models and trends, and the amount of snow that a city can receive from the skies before it metamorphoses to white piss or pissy ice. But Athenian snow was different. It was almost welcomed; serene with the white houses and blue accents all the way to the sea. She did not tell me, but I knew. How could I not?