Two strangers out in the fresh morning snow discussed our childhood love for the cold stuff. My new friend spoke with the deepest of Russian accents. She walked on to the bench on the hill, which was wet with an inch of snow, and made herself comfortable to take in the view. She was in no hurry. Her poor husband, from a warmer climate no doubt, paced back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth again. I imagined he was trying to give her enough time to feel all her feelings, but he was darned cold.