By Chelsea Biondolillo
She sat on the porch, and it snowed. Actually, it was a park bench in front of her apartment building–the closest thing to a porch she had–and it was just under an eave, so she didn’t get much snow, personally. She sat there in the gusts and smoked one, two, three cigarillos even though she’d quit smoking years ago. Like the bench not being a porch exactly, cigarillos weren’t exactly cigarettes. She had to relight a few times owing to the insistence of the wind.
It snowed around her. She watched cars drive by. She watched her fingers redden, felt them dry out. They began to feel more like paper than fingers. At least down here, on the porch, the cold belonged. It was doing what weather does. Upstairs, it was a foreign, ominous thing that moved through her room like a ghost ship. She thought about other times that she’d smoked cigarillos, and other times it had snowed.
As soon as the same car had driven by once, twice, three times she got up and went inside. It was as good a reason as any.