If I were in New York with you, it would be snowing. My nose would be running, and I’d wipe it on my sleeve, and you’d see me do it, and I’d shrug. Snow makes moments seem softer and more memorable. A lamp lit snowy night puts candlelight to shame, and we’d agree on something like this, but probably only because it’s wintry now.
There’s a quiet that settles upon even a loud city when it snows, blankets of intimacy and unspoken apologies fall on street corners as cars take more care to slow. It’s easier to forgive when there’s snow. We layer and bitch and order another glass. We long for tans and open-toe shoes because we know it will make us look thinner, but we wouldn’t trade our drunken fireside chats for destination tickets.
Instead I’d try to out-cold you, insisting you feel my hands, or nose, or ears. We’d remain in bistros eating melted cheese, rolling our eyes at just how damn good it all was, then we’d play “what if” games that really only the two of us would get. Before you’d arrive to meet me, I’d text you to remind you it’s snowing, complaining that I won’t look fashionable in my practical boots, and just as you’d arrive, I’d be bending down, unfurling my wet jeans, and you’d welcome my winter moon and ask for another.
First I’d make you buy me a drink. We’d start with whiskey because I’d say so. Then I’d kick your ass at scrabble and convince you to eat things you shouldn’t. It’s how birthdays in December should be celebrated. Candles blown, toasts raised, in from the cold streets, surrounded by our warmest friends.