The chill of the morning gave itself away in the colour on your cheeks. The rays of sun illuminating the corner of the block hit my eyes, yet I couldn’t miss the speckles of melting ice resting in the wool of your coat. You rubbed your hands on your face, but they stayed as rosy and plump as before. If it wasn’t for the frost outside, I could have sworn you had pinched them. I leant against the window, agitated and impatient, looking out at the monotonous street, quiet as the short hours of the night. I turned my head back at you. Glanced at the clock, pulled down the visor, fixed the rear view mirror a little to the left. You yawned and I watched the warmth of your breath soak into the air. The windows were shut tightly, refusing the wind, yet the light crept around the shadows of your nose. The newly awoken sun had kissed your collarbones and leapt upon your chest. You moaned and stretched out in your seat, lengthening your fingers to reach the ceiling of the car. I caught the last of your yawn, as contagious as every word you’d ever spoken. I pulled my arms out in front of me. Every muscle felt new, strange, good. I twisted the face of my watch back around to the top of my wrist, glanced again at the luminous dashboard clock. Seven thirty. Just within reach, and for not very long. I counted the inches between us as if they were seconds.

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