The sidewalks and streets were like glass. Even on the grass, there was none of the white powdery stuff. Just ice, as far as I could tell. You expect snow on grass to cave to your boots and leave deep, dramatic footprints behind you. There was no such drama going on here.

You walked in front of me, your black shoes trodding assuredly on the slick surface. "Come on. It's not pure ice. There's a little slush in it."

We were approaching an ice rink cleverly disguised as a parking lot. One had to step down from this grass where we were, off the curb, and onto the ice. You did it in one fluent, all to normal step.

"There's no slush," I said. "Just ice." I crouched so that my body was closer to the ground. I must have looked like somebody who had trekked miles and had finally found a few moments rest where I could kneel and breathe, assess my surroundings. I tried to look casual about it. "I'm going to fall on my ass," I stated. To me this was just a matter of fact. I rested my left hand on the ground and stuck out my right leg, touching toe to ice, trying to figure out the best way to tackle this seemingly easy task.

You stood there on the ice, black shoes firmly planted, smiling at me, your lips just above your purple scarf, your cheeks rosey.

"What's wrong with your boots? Don't they have any tread?"

"Yes." I looked at the bottom of one of my boots. "Plenty of tread. But this is ICE! Tread makes no difference on ice, you see?"

"Look!!" You jumped up and down. You walked right, then left. "It's fine! Don't be a baby."

I stepped out onto the ice. It was slick but I didn't fall.

"Don't slide your feet, just walk."

"Yes, right. Okay." We walked to the bookstore and talked about the miracle of snow in Dallas. We told each other stories. You told me about how your mom made you and your brother play outside in the winter when you were kids so that you would get out of the house and exercise. And she would advise you to stay out until your cheeks got rosey. And you would come ask her, 'Are my cheeks rosey?' I could imagine you as a little girl saying that to your mom and it made me smile.

I concentrated on not falling.

At the book store, we took our time. I browsed through photography magazines and you looked at career books. Then we went to the grocery store, thought about getting salmon, then decided on pizza for dinner, instead. We fueled up on vitamins and cold medicine. I hadn't slept well in 4 days due to the constant pseudoephedrine high I was on. The pharmacist told us that there really wasn't a cold formula that didn't make you a little jittery. On our way to the checkout, we contemplated getting olive oil and decided to leave it for another day.

Then we walked back in the fading light of the early evening, the wet, gray air, fantastic. Cold mist touched our jackets. Near our apartment, we stopped to pet a dog, who was excited to have his paws touching this cold, white stuff on the ground.

We climbed the steps to our apartment together. Inside it was warm and it made us feel sweaty, so we raced to get our coats off.

"That was fun," you said.

"That was fun," I said. "You're right."

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