Januariad

Regular snow blanketed their first few weeks, making simply traversing the city to one another’s apartment seem a grand gesture. Buses halted, bikes impossible, taxis an unthinkable extravagance. Each would arrive at the other’s door, panting after three miles of drifts and packed ice, bright-eyed with achievement and excitement and the prospect of a hot drink. ‘This weather is ridiculous!’ ‘I shouldn’t have suggested you come over!’ Every greeting imbued with the season, the effort of the pilgrimage. Every cheek peck feeling like a dip. Rubbing arms both to warm the visitor and to marvel at their presence. There was never a question of going home that night. They’d climb into bed with a film at half eight, accelerated into a strange intimacy. Two strangers sighing happily, hot whiskeys on the windowsill. Later in the month, as the weather warmed and the snow retreated to dark mountains in the corners of carparks, the pair faltered at their newfound freedom. ‘I should probably head on?’ ‘Are you tired?’ She didn’t want him to go. He didn’t want her to go. They had to find new excuses.