The windows of the parked car are steadily darkening in the February night, streetlamps become hazed and covered with frost and snow. I sit in the passenger seat, watching the scenery change around me. I turn around, past the empty driver’s seat, to face Angela.

The gathering snowflakes cast yellow starry shadows over her white face. She’s looking out the window to the rows of houses that stretch down the street.

“What do you think of D.C.?” I ask.

She smiles, but doesn’t look away from the window. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think it would actually snow.”

“Neither did I.” Our words hang and disappear into steam. All is still and silent outside of the car. The engine offers no purr or exhaust as we wait for Emily to come back, yet we are still warm.

Angela’s eyes meet mine.

Just earlier that day, I called her name in a crowded airport. I called her name, and she called mine. She left her bags on the bench and ran into my arms while Emily was away. Emily was away.

I study her face in the lamplight. “I’m really glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” she says. “Six months is a long time.”

I called her name in the airport and I could feel her skinny arms hang tight around my neck long after my arms had relaxed. Six months was a long time.

The driver’s side door opens. The lights flash on and all our heat vanishes through the open door, just as the laws of nature had intended. Emily climbs in, knocking ice off of her wool jacket and shaking her blonde hair. She smiles at me, and kisses me with her wintery lips. I look straight ahead.

“You let all the heat escape,” I say, faking a smile.

“Sorry, babe,” she says, and turns on the car. The vents begin to blow air propelled from the engine into our faces. I’m still cold.

I look at Angela in the rear view mirror, her slender hands folded in her lap like she’s carrying a dove. The yellow streetlamps create a halo through her dark hair while her eyes stare back out the window, staring at snow falling over the houses and at the warm people inside.