Chicago Snow

When I opened the door, I was at home in my favorite clothes – loose green sweats, which were stained and perfectly wonderful, and a too-large sweat shirt that I’d probably had since I was twelve. I always loved wearing favorite clothes. There’s something thereputic in it.

He blew in through the door with half of the snow falling over Chicago. It gathered in scattered tufts on my kitchen floor, which promptly melted into little puddles which seemed to say, Ha, ha. You will have to clean me up.

I could hear something raging outside, although it didn’t quite sound like a blizzard. It sounded like the longing, keening moan of a woman. The sound seemed to blow into the house down the chimney.

I shivered, staring at the white aparition in Preformance Fleece that was melting in my kitchen.

“Jesus, Lizzy. Aren’t you going to help me get this wet stuff into the dryer?” Smiling, I helped him with his coat, and didn’t bother telling him that I didn’t even have a dryer in my apartment.

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