The air is surprisingly mild, but thick, fluffy snowflakes twirl around the piers and coat the city in a soft quiet. Happy couples stroll through the weather and remark how lovely the day is, despite itself. I run slower than usual, but I feel like I could go on forever, rounding the tip of Manhattan and drifting away to sea. He writes to say the flight is delayed and maybe he won't make the connection in Paris after all. But I've never had an important flight play by the rules, I am jaded and remain unperturbed. The other side of the world seems too far away; you don't understand how it could end up right along your skin, so you don't think about it too much. There's things to do in the meanwhile. The vodka grows warm on your dresser.
There's a tiny Buddha hanging on the bedside lamp. You rub his belly. Decide that no matter the snow, tomorrow you will wake up to sunshine.
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