We scuff along the top of the reservoir, pretending our jeans aren�t wet and freezing from a romp in the snow. You�d wanted to go home � get clean and dry, escape from the fog closing in on this day stolen from the school system. I laughed and said you�d obviously never lived in San Francisco. You agreed, my small town love.

But I convinced you to stay (one of few times � it seems like you�re always dashing off away) and now here we are. The trees sparkle like Christmas ornaments in the sun that filters through the fog. Each blade of grass that pokes from beneath the snow is entombed in a cold sarcophagus.

We dream of the Arctic, where the wind would bite our bad-circulation toes off, and India, where we could snowboard in foot-deep powder and talk to Buddhists robed in saffron and eat chicken vindaloo.

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The smell of sweat and plastic mixes with freezing breath in the early January air. The two teenagers drag their toes in the snowy gravel, planning futures into the ground. The girl skips ahead suddenly, fingers in their piano-playing-octave spread, attempting to catch the fog. He rolls his eyes as she pirouettes quickly, bulky boot grinding the ground. On her second revolution she forgets to spot and loses her balance, falling over into him; he grabs at her. Their laughter provides harmony for the monk music peace that floats over the trees with fallen angel clouds.

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