"Are you Snow White?" he asked, staring at her black as night hair, skin as white as snow and her bloody red lips.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Snow isn't always white," she said. "Neither am I. Sometimes I'm gray and sometimes I'm black, like the snow piled at the curbs, made filthy by plows and cars. You know, when it starts to look like a bee hive, melting in spots, from the inside."
"Uh, I didn't know that."
"Not many people do."
"May I join you?" he asked, politely.
Snow thought about it, then nodded.
"So, are the stories about you true? Did you have an evil step-mother, did you move in with seven dwarfs?"
"What do you think?"
"No idea, that's why I'm asking."
"My parents got divorced and since my father was wealthy, he had good lawyers and got custody of me. He didn't want me, he just wanted to hurt my mother. That's why I ran away."
"What about the dwarfs?"
"What about them?"
"Did they really let you stay with them?"
"Yes. I did all the cooking and cleaning, to pay for my keep. They were very nice to me," she said, looking up at the waiter. "I'll have decaf tea and a brownie, please. Do you want anything?"
"Coffee, black, thank you," he said.
"No brownie?" she asked. "They're really good."
He shook his head. "Are you still in touch with them?"
"With the dwarfs?""
"Yes."
"Of course."
"Did you find your mother?"
"No. My father disappeared her."
"I'm sorry."
"He paid for it."
"He did?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to tell me about that?"
"No."
"What about the huntsman who was supposed to cut out your heart?"
"His name is Jon. He caught up with me, but had no intention of killing me, he just wanted to help hide me. He's a good friend."
"That changes the story a bit."
"Stories are written to tell people what they're supposed to be like, what they can expect from life, so the people writing them, write them to get their own way. They don't care how many lives they destroy. Look at Sleeping Beauty."
"I was going to, actually. She's next on my list."
"She wasn't sleeping, she just wanted to get away from the idiot prince. That's why she planted the thorn bushes in the first place. It's not as if any of us were allowed to kill the men. What kind of fairy tale would that be, right? Boys wouldn't like it if the girls killed them."
"I suppose that's true," he mumbled, writing everything down. "Makes perfect sense."
"What DOESN'T make sense, is that women have to jump through hoops to get away from men who want them. It doesn't make any sense at all. We aren't supposed to have any friends, no way to take care of ourselves...it only makes sense to men. How about climbing someone's hair to get into a tower, where a woman has been imprisoned, to keep her from living her life. All you have to do is reverse any of those old stories and put men into the place of women and you'll see how idiotic and cruel they are. Think about Cinderella holding a ball for men, so she can look them over and pick the one she likes. Think of the men getting ready before the ball, hoping to be the one who is chosen. Just reverse things. Evil step mothers? No evil authors."
"I..."
"I know," sighed Snow. "You never though about it that way, right?"
He nodded.
"That's the story you should write. How women have always been held prisoners. Always been expected to be LESS. And don't forget to mention how horrific all the fathers were, that they allowed the abuse of their daughters, by evil stepmothers and sisters, and never came to their rescue. There are no comparable stories about boys. No boys in towers, or comas. No boys sweeping hearths, or tortured by evil step mothers or stepbrothers. No one wanting to cut out their hearts. And the evil stepmothers and stepsisters were there to show girls they could never count on other women. Which was exactly how men wanted to keep them powerless, by not letting them trust each other.
"This isn't what I expected."
"You weren't taught how to think," she laughed. "Besides, you're one of the privileged group. A white male. That's kind of the gold standard around here. Are you sure you don't want a brownie?"
"No, thanks," he said sipping his coffee.
Snow thanked the waiter and he bent over and kissed her.
"What was that all about?" he asked.
"He's a friend of mine."
"I would think you wouldn't like men, after what you've been through."
"Oh, please. That old chestnut. It's the culture women don't like, it's the inequality, the lies and violence we hate."
"Do you think Sleeping Beauty will see me?"
"Of course not. Why would she?"
"I'll tell her side of the story."
"You mean the part about how a kiss from a man, who was a complete stranger, woke her out of a long coma and then he whisked her away to his castle where he married her? That story?"
"Yes. That's the story."
"You just don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
"Never mind," she said, drinking the last of her tea. I have to go. I wish I could say it's been nice talking with you but that would be a lie. And the reason I lived with the dwarfs was because you really can't find a place where women are free enough, in fairy tales, to all live happily together and go to work each day, while having a place of their own. Maybe in some weird stories there's a nunnery but that's just another prison, of mind and body, so that wouldn't work either, would it."
"I..."
"Women were never allowed to be the heroes in their own stories. But that has changed. You don't get to kiss us and wake us up any longer. We've always been awake, we just couldn't do anything about what was said about us. The stories were written to teach girls to be weak and to be happy to be chosen. Those days are over. Now we ride dragons," she said, as her dragon landed in front of the coffee shop. Now we are writing our own stories."
Her dragon shot flames into the air and a few people screamed.
"Gotta go," she said. "She gets antsy, if I take too long."
He watched her leap into the saddle and saw the dragon take to the air. He had to admit that she wasn't the Snow White he expected to meet. He finished his coffee, put his notepad into his briefcase, put money on the table and left, thinking that he may have to alter his ideas about the book he was planning to write.
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