We sit in a parked car, I and the friend who knew me best in the thousand-year-old city where we chased life all over town. She is breastfeeding her baby while a blizzard is piling snow over the car on a dark winter night.
She absent-mindedly draws a heart in the condensation on the window, the same kind of heart that I do when I doodle even though I don't really believe in love much. The temperature outside is minus twelve degrees Celsius, and despite thick wool coats and thermal mittens we feel the cold assaulting us when the car's heater is no longer blasting hot air. I watch the whirling snow outside while we talk about a man we knew who froze to death recently, not far from his house. This winter could kill us. But I can see my house from here, and windows are lit up in warm welcome. The baby, wrapped in a fleece, is making contented noises.
Many years ago, in that ancient city, my friend and I were guests at a wedding and knew every nuance of each other's faces. Now, my friend's face is almost strange to me as we talk about the painful divorce of that wedding couple. Her arms are used to the weight of a baby. My legs are used to running in high heels to silence fire alarms.
Today, we have screamed with laughter about a golden skirt and discovered that we share a recurring and very, very odd dream that we don't like to talk about. Our friendship is no longer what it used to be. It is now warming hearts in a blizzard, exploring newer cities, reuniting women that have carried babies and run in high heels a thousand miles apart.
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