There’s something strange about the snow. It just sits there. As far as we know no new snow has fallen since the other day when the first snow fell. And it isn’t melting. It’s always twenty degrees. The sidewalks are treacherous. You let me touch you again. You always let me touch you again. It’s funny. I still believe you when you say you never want to see me again. First it’s a handshake. Then I let your fingers rest in my palm like warm stones for a few seconds. As you’re handing me your keys. It’s our bodies. They track each other down. Drag us through ditches and gravel. Tomorrow’s a holiday. But we’re tired of holidays. We’re still paying for the last holidays. The sun’s coming back slowly. The evenings are still dark and the TV shows have all been on before. Forgetting how to live we are reduced to watching others live. Only they’re not living either. They’re just practicing. Hoping once or twice to get it right. The counter at the bus station is closed but they keep the lobby open with the heat on. And the restrooms are open even though it’s Sunday. There are two blond girls. They look like sisters. They’re hungry and high on meth. One wants twenty. The other wants twenty-five. That guy who always carries a lamp that’s missing a lampshade is yelling at the guy who always unravels his sweater while he’s wearing it. It’s not often you get to save five dollars.