We stepped out of the theater and I squealed
The three Africans seemed in varied states of distress over the snow
The father, grumpy as always, plowing his way through the flurry to the car
The mother, giddy but exhausted, thankful she didn't have to run a marathon this year
And you, cold as ever, clinging to my hand like a branch jutting over a freezing cold river
I laughed and smiled and I saw the snow pile up in your hair and on your broad shoulders and you shivered and tried to stop me from sliding across the icy ground
We all slipped into the car, trying not to let the fat snowflakes sneak in
I practically fell in the door, icy crystals forming settlements on my head
You took one look at me, stroked a lock of my hair between your finger and thumb and gazed, wide eyed for a brief moment
"You have snow in your hair." You whispered, giggling. You gently tugged my face towards yours by my damp curl
And you kissed me