Obligated by the fact we are supposed to be teaching, Gabe leads a historical walking tour of town. How he knows all this - either he planned in advance or is making it up as he goes. I notice he seems to be particularly drawn to the historical markers affixed to most buildings.

As Gabe is going on about some battle and the quasi significance to this town, I take in the scenery. Gabled roofs covered in lights, wooden balconies covered in pine boughs, shop fronts decorated with baubles and ribbons. The market, just a block away, is already bustling but calm. Music is drifting slowly from the distance. The serene town is completely different from the town of last night.

As I trail behind the group, I try to find the small alpine lake we plan to walk to this afternoon. I scan the massive expanse of mountains surrounding the town. There are peaks as far as I can see. Since the lake is supposedly walkable from town, I shift my gaze more on the horizon between buildings. As the group ahead turns down a side street, I follow but I look the opposite direction in hopes to see the lake down the cross street.

“Oof.” I say as I walk into a wall. A soft wall. A person. Seriously Isa, wake up. “I'm so sorry….”

“Damn American tourists not watching where they go.” The person mutters in English, obviously for me to hear.

I am about to apologize again but I suddenly recognize who I walked into. I chortle softly in disbelief. “It seems you are watching a little too closely where I go. Or did you just happen to catch my scent coming from nearby?”

He still didn’t look at me, busying himself with the front page of a newspaper from the rack outside a kiosk. But I can tell he is doing a horrible job at hiding a grin.

He gives no response but finally looks down at me. There is no recognition of me in his eyes. Curses. He looks exactly like the Krampus with dark hair from last night but obviously not the same person. He doesn’t have his horns. Of course he doesn’t have horns, I tell myself. Mercy, I need more caffeine. Or sleep.

“I'm so sorry, I thought you were someone else… I’m obviously a bit distracted today.”

But as his face turns fully to me, I see his impressive silver scar that curls around his eyes. Those endless black eyes.

“Oh, good morning Ice Queen. I didn't realize it was you. You look a little more… put together.”

Obviously I was a disaster last night. Though I feel no better this morning, I guess I had on clean clothes and combed my hair. I want to ask if he meant that I smell better than last night but decide better of it. He’d probably use the quip against me.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“I should be saying the same to you. I see you put your horns and claws away.” I say as I casually take a long look down to his hands, pausing briefly on his chest and arms. He is wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and top buttons undone. His scent of pine and snow tickles my nose. Curses. He’s going to tell me he owns a christmas tree farm or something very hallmark-movie-esque.

“I do enjoy dressing up for Krampusnacht but it is not my everyday look.” I wonder if he heard Gabe’s concerns in the bar. “Try to look a little more put together when I'm working.”

My eyes question him which he recognizes. And responds to.

“I have a tree farm. I just delivered a load of trees to my friend who has that stand over there.” He points to a Christmas tree stall at the end of the market a few blocks away. I see a man setting up trees that are in a pile behind the stall. He was not making this up.

As I slowly turn back to him I see little pine needles sticking out of his flannel in places. I absentmindedly pick a clump of needles off his shoulder, as if I need palpable proof. He is really a walking holiday story.

I need him to pull away from my touch, turn from my social awkwardness. Something to keep me from swooning over this tough-exterior but absolute gentleman of a Christmas tree farmer.

Instead, he leans in and whispers to me. “What about you, Ice Queen, in what occupation do you find yourself with those icy powers?”

I melt on the inside.

After a moment to clear my mind, I reflect on the question. Was he calling me an icy bitch or was he continuing down this weird obsession that I can make my own ice? I choose the former.

“My icy personality is well used as a middle school teacher.”

He laughs but he narrows his eyes, searching me for more. He really means the latter. I keep my stare, curious about his institance I have the ability to create ice.

“Isa!” The moment is broken as I hear Oliver call my name and look up the street where Oliver is waiting for me, the group already moved on.

“Isa? It is a pleasure to meet you, Isa.” Oliver calls again. “I think your friend is calling you.” This seems to irk him.

“He’s not… he’s a coworker.” I fluster over my assumption of what he is implying. I am falling apart in front of him and I don’t even know his name. My heart pounding, “If I want to find you again, intentionally, can I call you?”

His dark eyes soften and sparkle gold. I feel the warmth of last night, the warmth of after a fresh snow. He does not give me a phone number.

“You can ask anyone in town for me. Ask for Reinmar. But you can call me Remme.”

I want to say something more. Something poetic. Something witty, or even cloy. But the silence seems stronger than anything I can say. I push away a stray strand of his brown-black marled hair that falls in front of his eye and my fingers burn with the touch. He tries to hide a soft guttural sigh. Oliver calls a third time.

As I walk away, I glance back just to confirm that he is real. Remme. A name to the man who haunted my dreams last night. He walks into the shop, apparently to buy the paper he was reading and behind him leaves a trail of snow on the sidewalk. On a blue sky day.