"There is something funny about recalling a warm memory", I say. She looks up and shrugs. She doesn't understand. Of course she doesn't understand. It is a foreign language to her, the language of defeat. The language of someone who has lost everything and who must share their despair with the winner of a fight they did not know they were losing. My eyes fall upon the middle pillow we had used to separate our bodies in the night.
There is something funny about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.
I tighten my scarf around my neck.