Frosty was the perfect husband. He never spoke and hid his feelings well, but he was nothing before he met me.
It was a perishing winter that year and the snow fell heavily for days. When it finally stopped, we grabbed shovels, swathed ourselves in layers and ran out into the frosty morning air. In the glistening garden, I gathered handfuls of the pure white powder and began to create my man. There were two stipulations. He had to be 6 ft (I was 5 11” in heels), and he needed a chirpy smile (my last boyfriend had been a grumpy old git). Those boxes ticked, Frosty quickly morphed into being and I soon couldn’t imagine life without him.
On the day of my wedding, I wore a white meringue dress, while Frosty was minimally attired, with nothing more than a coal lump for a nose and a couple of sprightly Brussel sprouts as eyes. My brother was chief photographer. He selected a sepia background, courtesy of Photo-pro to highlight our aesthetic compatibility, and later I blew one up to billboard size and hung it in a silver frame above our double bed.
All our friends and relatives were there, well, mine mainly, although a green parakeet from the bird table next door flew over and perched on Frosty’s head for a second, while a couple of squirrels scurried up his body, and during the service, two Persian cat neighbours ventured outside for a minute to sniff my new beau’s legs. Instead of hymns, we sang Christmas songs, and I paraded down the shoveled-out aisle to a enthusiastic rendition of ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ And for our wedding breakfast, Dad set up a hot dog and burger stall in his garage, while Mum provided mulled wine and cocoa in the garden shed.
We really couldn’t have been happier, but Frosty wasn’t to everyone’s taste.
‘He doesn’t have a lot to say for himself, love,’ said Dad.
‘He’s a little cold, darling,’ said Mum.
‘Once you get to know him, he warms up,’ I said.
And as the temperature began to rise, and the never-ending winter trundled towards spring, warm up he did, drop by drop. Panicking, I pushed heaps of snow into his depleting waistline, packed compacted ice into his bottom, and shoved ice cubes into his belly, but it was all to no avail.
Things change, people disappear, nothing stays the same in life. One thing I do know though is that I made Frosty into the man he was, and I’ll be forever grateful for that icy winter that gave us a little more time together.
Mary Thompson lives in London, where she works as a freelance English teacher. Her work has recently featured in journals and competitions including Flash 500, Retreat West, Reflex Fiction, Funicular Magazine, Spelk, Ghost Parachute, Cabinet of Heed, Ellipsis Zine, LISP, Literary Orphans and Bangor Literary Journal, Pidgeonholes and Riggwelter.