1. You fly into the city that never snows the day after an ice storm. The two of you thought you were being so smart, packing a single suitcase. Now that the airline has lost your luggage you don’t feel clever at all. The city has nearly shut down, cold and cracking. On the fourth day of watching you wash your underwear out in the sink, he suggests that you venture outside. You borrow your grandmother’s scarf and he listens intently as your grandfather arms you with a small, hand-drawn map of the neighborhood. Outside, the sun is setting and the pavement is beginning to freeze again. Nervous cars swerve slowly down 35th. You walk for what seems like forever and eventually arrive at a movie theater that shows second-run films at half price. After the movie, heading home, you get lost and find yourselves stumbling down a hill as slick as wet glass. Your shoes have no traction. Right before your feet slide out from under you he grabs hold of your belt loop with such force that for a split second it feels like how you would imagine flying to be. Barely standing, suspended over the ice, your laughter is uncontrollable.
2. You are walking down the steps, each pebble coated with ice. This is four days after the storm in the city that never plows. You are walking home from the bar on the corner, your head heavy with cider and wine. It is dark, after eight. The french vanilla snow drifts have turned to a dirty chocolate chip. The day it snowed you called in to work and stayed in bed with him. Your feet touching the floor only to adjust the heat or retrieve glasses of water from the kitchen sink. He is following behind you, his boots crunching the mix of gravel and ice beneath them. The two of you are new to each other and have only recently gone public with your togetherness. As your feet take on another step, his voice is at once concerned and soothing, “be careful baby, it’s frozen.” In that moment, you actually feel your body temperature rise. You have always wanted to be called “baby” in this way.
