It’s the perfect time of night, when it’s right on the verge of dawn and the inks mark on the night is fading slowly enough to taste the snow as it starts to sparkle. While all the others are inside thumping houses of pink and blue lights racing across the wall, we’re in your driveway dancing on the ice in our sneakers. We’re screaming meaningless words into the night, lifting our lips to the sky and our fingertips to the moon. You’re stumbling across the ice towards me with the kind of unguarded smile on your face that reminds me of the old pictures with bent edges we laughed at in the living room of you with macaroni spread across your face, you in a crib you’d outgrown, you beaming at the camera from your car seat.
The music leaks from the house, a mix of pop stars with tiny waists and tinier brains singing words so far from the ones we’d written on thin napkins hours earlier. Girls in sequins skirts and boys in brightly colored polos emerge from the house every so often, the boys laughing and screaming, the girls with mascara dried on their cheeks and words spit from the tip of their tongue. They’re oblivious to us, the two shadows on the ice, dancing in between cars made of many cars, smiling in the way that makes your feet seem to lift off the concrete a little. We’re the silhouettes in between the shadows of the street lights, dancing as the deepest chapter of night turns to the lightest edge of morning.