The drive out of the holiday suburbs. Route 28's gentle turns, and the cold
that blushed our cheeks when we got out. A crusted homemade roll and the trail
of butter that held its halves together. When she asked "Is it bad?" when I said
my throat was hurting. That night, over a mediocre dinner, a shared cocktail
muddled with ginger. How we laughed while we graded the filet, the blandness
of the fish, the over-garlicked potatoes. The snow hadn't even started,
but it was already falling in the story I was telling myself. Later, a hot bath. Pages
of a book I couldn't put down. Sips of soda water. Sleep, uninterrupted.
In the morning, a shop filled with kaleidoscopes. A sweet-tart cherry lozenge.
How we keep spinning that glass for a wink of pearl and violet and orange.