They lie on the snowy flats, the only spots of color on an otherwise white landscape under a white dome with that sort of smell in the air like cold and wood and the bin full of scarves on the top of your closet. They are heavy with down jackets and snow pants and mittens and feelings, so many feelings, and also balaclavas which are not as weighty as feelings but still important. The snow is soft and fresh - we are in the middle of a storm here that is taking a break to perhaps catch its breath and it is calm for the moment with the sort of silence that comes after the world is covered in a layer of ice and tissue and felt. The trees are bare, you couldn't point to the sun if you tried, the mountains are dotted with the sort of houses your sister has always dreamed of retiring to, and they, they, they are on the ground, staring up at the sky.
She says: I want to tell you something important about myself.
He says: yes, do that.
She says: I have often thought about lying on the ground and having it snow like two feet at once, just like a huge thick pile of snow falling on me. Can you imagine what it would be like to be overwhelmed like that?
There is a beat in which they keep looking up, his hair messy and weird from the hat he had on, her eyes blinking with all the gray, and then he turns on his side and touches her sleeve with his mitten and that, my friends, is where it is too much for us, just too private to continue any longer. We are out of here, moving back to look at them from further away, tiny dots on the map. It starts snowing again.