"There is a perfectly good reason for both," you say. You place a peck upon her freezing cheek. "I can feel your teeth chattering."
"Because it's cold," she says, gesturing her mittened hand to the snowfall that began only when you stepped outside of the restaurant, like a red carpet dropped as you walk. She slides her arm through yours and lets you pretend that you're leading.
"I like it up here." You flex your elbow and she flexes hers back and, out of the bottom corner of your eye, you catch your feet in a reflexive two-step, a one-motion jig, your right foot landing in a newly formed puddle of melted snow that grabs the reflection of the street lamps hovering above, dropping angel's halos all around her freckled head.
You stare with your peripheral vision and see her smiling at the clouds of fog resting among the mountains. She bares white teeth and flicks out a cranberry tongue to catch a falling flake. As if taking a cue, more snow comes down to join the reverie and it rests in a skullcap in her red hair, finding crevices in it you could never have guessed your fingers needed to know. You're immersed in each copper strand and it begs for you. Your head tilts to the sky and takes it all in.
And later that night, there's a quiet moment when you're koala bear-ed around her. She breathes soft and deep and exhales sonnets. Her foot pulses in a dream and she holds you like you were going to evaporate. Her eyes flutter open for a split second, hook into yours, and drag you into the light. She flares her nostrils and drifts back away, never letting you go.
You look around the room and swear that you see God.