February 18, 2011
She arrived unprepared for the weather, her shoes permeable, her clothing no protection. You haven’t stopped shivering since you got here, he said.

She eyed him from the corner, her body nervous as a hummingbird’s. She asked for tea, then honey. She asked for lemon, but he hadn’t been to the store.

When she fell asleep, he slipped off her waterlogged shoes and socks, exposing skin softened and wrinkled by the dampness. He held her feet, wrapped his fingers around her feather-soft arches. He decided he could sit there as long as it took for her to wake up.

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