Her, enveloped in the smell of the snow, and her cold fingertips, and the sound of the black clouds drifting through the sky so high above, and her heart, and my feelings, and our apartment. . . The snow soaks up every sound. Only the sounds of the train she rides reach my pricked-up ears. I . . . and probably she, too . . . like this world, I think.

When she came home, she smelled the way I like. But . . . her face seemed sadder than when she left.

And then after that long, long phone call, she wept.

The only one waiting at home for me is my cat!

Let's go home together.