Stop that

I almost put my hand on your thigh as we drove into the night.
It's not that I'm still in love.




It's just hard to break muscle memory.

District 9

A cold snow falls, resting on the trees above and letting silence reign over the Capitol. I watch the great stone monuments shrouded in white, my breath blowing visibly in front of my face, my nose red from the chill. We walk together, our feet crunching in the covered leaves, twin trails criss-crossing the moon-lit avenue. The wind blows, shaking the loose snow from the trees and adding more to the flakes blowing all around us. Subconsciously, I pull you closer, our fingers warm together, our bodies brushing closely together. A park bench stands invitingly under a canopy of reflected light. We move towards it, our legs needing a short rest. I lean down, hesitant to leave your side for even a moment, and brush away the fallen snow from the cold wood, motioning you to take a seat. It's the first time I've noticed the cold as I sit beside you, eager to press against your body once more.

People wander around us, some in close pairs, others alone, hands in pockets, kicking the snow with each step. The streetlights create pools of light along the avenues, attracting small groups of travelers, all waiting to be bathed in the light of arriving cabs. The streets are crowded for such a cold night, the passing cars throwing waves of icy slush onto the glistening sidewalks. Close by, a girl loses her balance and her feet slip out from under her. The grip on her waist tightens immediately and she's pulled to safety by the man beside her, their laughter piercing he still air. The walk away, slower now, closer together, their voices fading away.

I shift beside you, my arm pulling you tighter to me. Your hair falls from your scarf onto my shoulder, dusted with snow.