By Philip Elliott
He kissed me in the labyrinth. That’s not a vague metaphor—it was one of those maze gardens behind a mansion that once belonged to some rich asshole or another. Snow coated everything—this was up near Canada—and the world was white and forever. I know what you’re thinking: The Shining. This isn’t that kind of story. Or maybe it is. The labyrinth was closed, officially, but can a labyrinth ever really be closed? Or open for that matter.
Dylan helped me under the barrier and slipped on the snow when it was his turn. He laughed for a full minute, his slightly overlapping front teeth forming that imperfect smile I adored.
Inside, we had crossed over to another realm. Curved snow-walls towered around us, the resilient green of fir peeking through. There was a smell of absolute freshness in the crisp air. My cheeks tingled from the cold, fingers sore beneath the gloves. But my blood was alive.
“I bet if I ran away in here you’d never find me,” he said and poked my spine.
“What makes you think I’d want to?”