In fresh snow, there are two beer cans planted like flags in some unknown country of the night. The snow is as soft as her flesh- the flesh of her belly in particular. There was a man who once stole her dreams. Not really a man, more an entity with no features. He took away her ability to feel at one with herself. She’s been two people for so long now, but his hold on her is weakening, and every time she smiles, it fades a little bit more. The air is cold, and we stand shivering while smoking our cigarettes slightly drunk and in love. I’ve already phoned in sick for tomorrow’s shift, and so has she. Although nothing’s been said between us, we know we shall stay in bed until well into the afternoon making love and then talking in the spaces of rest that follow. Time has slowed down, and the weather only heightens the sense of magic we’ve created in the bubble that surrounds us. Leaves fall onto the snow and stain its purity making it appear like blood in the early morning light. The town is quiet, and all the roads have been closed. Occasionally, a cat jumps from garden to garden, but there are no humans to be seen. Nature takes all while we cocoon ourselves from harm. Inhaling specs of dust that float from room to room, our chests rise together as we kiss beneath a blanket scented with tea and furniture polish. The day is an echo; it’s a sigh that drifts like our favourite song through the open window to the cosmos outside.