I stepped off the church steps and into the snow. What had been inches was now feet. My tights absorbed the melt, clinging to my legs as if to keep me from leaving. The streets were changed—emptied, hollow. Even the light felt counterfeit, the shimmer of the snow dulled to ash.

My ears rang. The crunch of my steps was unbearable.

She took me to dinner at three in the morning. I didn’t eat. The coffee was warm, and I watched the steam rise until my thoughts drifted with it, somewhere I couldn’t follow.

When I woke, the world had turned. Still drunk, I stared at the ceiling and felt the day gather itself outside.

In my mind, I was running barefoot down the street—heels sliding on the ice, red toenails flashing like warning lights. I stood in the road, arms open, waiting.

The car swerved.

Oh well. Time to get up.