Cold

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Cold

It had been months together on the street corner. The man and woman dutifully stood, day, night, wind, sleet, or shine at the bus stop. Throughout the first month they had never spoken, an ambivalent nod once or twice, but not more than that.

As the sight of one or the other became normal, the two transitioned to the briefest of conversations. Quick "good morning"s or simpler "mornin'" punctuated the silent waiting zone. Both of them exchanged smiles and then did their best to avoid eye contact. It wasn't until the winter came did they share words at length. Prompted by unusual weather or odd bits of local news, their friendship slowly but surely grew to encompass polite political discourse. Over time, the pair, after several months, learned each other's names.

On this particularly frigid morning the man grasped his coat's lapel shut and buried his face into it against the wind. Blusters ripped the water from his eyes in sharp gusts of tears. A small patch of skin, visible through a tear in his glove, burned bright red amidst the ice building up around his homespun threads. Spotting the woman he had become accustomed to standing by in the morning he casually walked up to her.

"Good morning!"

"Morning!"

"You ever ask someone out cold turkey?"

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