Blizzared

The ice storm cometh. Nothing else seems of interest, and every turn of wind warrants immediate dissection. We abandon the office early, scramble to reach a train before they arrive full stop in the tunnels. The grocery store shelves lie empty, the floor overflowing with desperate shoppers on line. We make Christmas drinks and take pictures of the wintry courtyard. It eases come evening; the eye of the storm hovers over the Village. I paint my nails with my grandmother's hue and find myself wishing I could call her.

His smile reminds you of warmer climates. For a short moment, you allow yourself to drown in it. Let it keep you warm, until the storm has passed.