The snow was a buffer, falling heavily and silent. It seemed to tuck the world in, letting it drift off to sleep under the caring watch of the streetlamps.

                The day had gotten away from us, and what had initially been meant as an evening run was now an evening walk. I held her hand because I wanted to, but also partly because we’d only brought one pair of gloves with us. She wore them of course, her hands far to small, giving her the appearance of a 1930’s Mickey Mouse cartoon.

                We walked our normal route, at a less-than-normal speed, at an abnormal hour. The crunch of snow was the only noise that followed us. She whispered its beauty. She didn’t have to, but I was glad she did. The night would’ve felt empty without the words.

                “Do you think it knows?” I muttered with a softness meant to match the snowflakes.

                She stopped, gathering herself and her red scarf. Looking at me, she crinkled her nose as a request for clarification. I’d known she would, but I’d wanted to see her nose crinkle. I smiled at my small victory.

                “Who?” her voice twinkled.

                “The street, the snow, these cars, this whole scene,” I said, “Doesn’t it know how picture perfect it all seems?”

                “I hope not,” she said.

                She flashed me another smile. Radiant.

                “Doesn’t it deserve to know?” I asked.

                I was suddenly sad, knowing that this street, this night, would never witness its own elegance.

                “No,” she said, cradling my arm tight, “perfect like this would come with so much pressure.”

                She turned, pulling me along once again.

                “And I would hate to chase it away.”