The soft sound of snow crunching underfoot gives me comfort. Her building is at the end of the block. She lives on the north side. Bottom floor. Middle apartment. I see her. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 steps. Wrong key. Lock clicks. She drops her coat and scarf in the entry and kicks off those... vixen shoes. She shuffles to the kitchen and pours a glass of scotch. (I am inside) She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke over the match. (She doesn't notice) The gray smog rises from her lips like a cremation furnace. The simple elegance of this quiet moment is almost irresistible. (But, I wait) She slugs back the scotch, finishes her smoke and ashes it in the sink. She unties her hair and enters the hallway, past the childless bedroom with the empty crib, past the altar coated in wax like a wedding cake, and the tiny packages of meat, dead flowers, and baby's breath. She enters the bathroom, where she undresses. She sits on the edge of the bath. Her naked body folded in half, heavy tits hanging like mushy stalactites over her lap. (Oh, precious) She closes her eyes and holds her head as if it might float away.