Peter and the Inevitable Thaw - Script

INT. CAFE ON PORTAGE - DAY

Steam clings to the windows. The air is thick, smelling of wet wool and burnt milk. A chrome espresso machine HISSES like a dying engine.

The door opens. A cheerful BELL JINGLES, a sharp lie against the grey slush outside.

PETER (9), solemn in a coat two sizes too big, steps onto the tile. His boots SQUEAK.

He grips a plastic sled rope. He pulls.

MR. FLAKE slides over the threshold. He is three feet of dirty, city-packed snow. A threadbare red scarf hangs limp around his neck. His base leaves a wet, grey smear on the floor.

CATHY (40), eyes rimmed with exhaustion, stands behind the counter. She holds a dishrag. She stops wiping.

Peter drags Mr. Flake past empty tables. The snowman SCRAPES against the linoleum. The sound of erosion.

Peter stops at a window seat. He hoists Mr. Flake into the chair opposite him.

Mr. Flake lists to the left. His carrot nose droops. A single drop of water gathers at the tip.

Cathy walks over. She carries a yellow plastic A-frame: CAUTION - WET FLOOR.

She sets it down next to the table with a decisive CLACK.

The usual?

Peter adjusts a piece of charcoal on Mr. Flake’s face. It sinks into the soft, wet slush of the head.

He’s not feeling himself. The warmth. He calls it a vulgar expression of molecular agitation.

Cathy stares at the snowman. A puddle expands around the chair leg.

One hot chocolate.

She turns back to the counter.

Peter leans in close to the snowman.

(Whispering)

I know. It’s a prison.

The drop falls from the carrot nose. PLINK. It hits the table.

INT. CAFE ON PORTAGE - LATER

A mug of hot chocolate sits untouched. Steam rises, disappearing into the humid air.

Cathy runs a mop around the base of Mr. Flake’s chair. The grey strings slurp up the water.

Peter watches the mop. His jaw tightens.

You’re unmaking him.

Cathy leans on the mop handle. Her knuckles are red.

It’s a health code violation, Peter.

Is it better to exist in a box, or to dissolve into the whole?

It’s better not to slip and sue the owner.

INT. CAFE ON PORTAGE - ONE WEEK LATER

The cafe is busier. The air is hotter. The HISS of the steamer is constant.

Peter sits at the same table. Mr. Flake is opposite him.

The snowman is diminished. Compact. The snow is grey and icy. He looks like a tumor made of slush.

Cathy approaches with the hot chocolate.

Suddenly, Mr. Flake’s left twig arm detaches. It falls. CLATTER.

Peter stares at the twig on the floor. He doesn't pick it up.

Peter.

Peter looks up. His eyes are wet.

Every day he comes here to be with me. Every day this place kills him.

Cathy looks at the boy. She looks at the sad, melting lump. She sighs.

I have an idea.

She points a thumb over her shoulder.

The ice cream freezer in the back. It’s empty right now.

Peter blinks. He looks at the kitchen door.

He can sit in there. We’ll leave the door open so you can see him. He won’t melt. He’ll stay just like he is.

Peter looks back at Mr. Flake. The snowman is a ruin. A mess. A tragedy.

Peter imagines it.

A white box. A frozen, static shape. Forever.

A drop of water runs down Mr. Flake’s side. It joins the puddle on the floor.

Peter stands up. The chair SCRAPES.

No.

It solves the problem.

It solves nothing. The thaw is the point.

He grabs the sled rope.

He pulls. The weight is heavy, dead and wet.

Mr. Flake slides. A thick slurry trail smears across the clean floor.

Peter doesn't look back.

He pushes the door open. A blast of cold, sharp air cuts through the steam.

EXT. CAFE - CONTINUOUS

The door swings shut.

Peter stands on the sidewalk. The wind bites his face.

He looks down at Mr. Flake. The snowman seems to settle. A final, structural sigh.

Peter waits. He watches the steam rise off the snowman's body and vanish into the grey sky.