"This isn't where I expected us to be." (Immediate conflict. One is not where one wants to be.)

        "GPS didn't account for—" Bill (We have a name.) rapped the machine, waited for directions, a detour. "Barricade." Grey filtering in at the temples, he never looked more handsome. (But Bill is not the storyteller. Our storyteller sits in the passenger seat.) "Kids expect us to be late, anyway."

        "They expect you to be late."

"Meaning?" (Tension. Bill is, perhaps, a tad unreliable?)

         He'd pull out that necklace at the party, "surprise" her with his promotion. (She doesn't sound happy about the promotion. But keeps it to herself.) "Let's walk."

        "It's snowing." (Our essential contest milieu.)

        "You used to love the snow." Summer snow cones at Coney Island, winter nights snuggled against his body as the snow fell outside the cabin upstate. "I miss those days." (This is the beginning, and it orients us well. We have a married couple in the car, surrounded by snow, unable to get to a party on time. The tense dialogue tells us they are not particularly close. So they have lost their way, both literally and figuratively.)

Bill kept driving, in circles.

"I want out." She shoved open the door. Tuck and roll. The compacted snow would either soften her landing or she'd ram into an iceberg.

        Better than a slow drown. (Exquisitely profound. Applicable to her immediate surroundings as well as her distant marriage.)

        Slotting up against a snowdrift, he nudged the door closed on her. "Can't get out that way." (He won't let her go so easily.)

        There was a time she didn't want out, but in. "Forty-five's still young." The words floated like the snowflakes, which resembled miniature sand dollars hitting the windshield. Heavy and light at the same time. Isn't everything in life a double-edged sword? Love, marriage, snow? (Lusciously eloquent.)

        Bill cut the engine. The open door dinged three times, waiting for an answer: Are you in or out? (Brilliant!)

"Is there another man?"

        "Another man?" God, he didn't have a clue. "Isn't one jackass enough?" (Angry he can’t read her thoughts, she lashes out. Loneliness looms. And now she must answer the million-dollar question: What are you going to DO about it?)

        He reached over, rubbed the hem of her dress between his fingers. "Silver becomes you."

        "Twenty-fifth anniversary. I didn't think you'd noticed."

        "I don't need some damned GPS to read you."  He pushed open the driver door, took her hand. "Can't get out that way." (He reiterates.)

As she shimmied across the velour seat, the steering wheel grazed her thigh, the way Bill used to. (Longing.)

        "Stilettos—" He laughed. "Aren't made for walking, especially in snow."

        "But they're great for a swift kick in the ass." (More frustration, disguised as a joke.)

        He locked the door, hesitated. "What if we—" He pointed to the crowd. "Watch the ball drop."

        "Can't see it from here."

        "Then we'll just have to get closer to Times Square."

         "Quit." Before he pulled her through the throng, before he tried to whitewash the future with the past. (How, oh, how does she close the ever-widening gap between them?)

        "I proposed Christmas Eve—"

         "Quit the job, sell the house." (By opening her mouth.)

        "—New Year's Eve, we made love at the cabin." (He didn't hear her.) He kissed a snowflake from her nose. "Serendipitous. The snow. We were snowed in on our honeymoon. Remember?"

        "Bill—" (Courage growing. Suspense building.)

        He reached into his coat pocket—the one over his heart.

        "I don't want some damned diamond. I want—" (Yes? Say it!) She watched the snow fall against the blue moon hanging in the sky. Watched her breath condense. Could they find their way again? "I want you." (Finally! She expresses herself, articulates her goal. Now will she or won't she achieve it?)

        He pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open. "Bill McMann here. I quit. I want out." He snapped the phone shut, tossed it in front of a snowplow rumbling past. (Hmm, he might regret that later.) "And in." He reached a hand under her skirt, ran his thumb over her thigh, melted the snow. (Ahhhh. Love in the cold night air.)

OVERVIEW
Here, we meet an unnamed frustrated wife who is on the verge of celebrating the 25^th year of marriage to husband Bill. But she doesn't want the diamond gift he carries in his pocket. She wants her busy husband back in her life.

On the surface, this is a common story of a marriage that's grown stale. But what makes it uncommon, for me, is that which occurs between the beautifully-written lines. The use of this snowy trip as a metaphor for their marital journey is a stroke of stylistic genius!

And yet structurally, we still have a lead character who faces conflict, who steps out of her head, goes after what she wants and realizes some sort of change. The story doesn't simply stop, it resolves itself to a satisfying conclusion. The end.

It's touching, perceptive and highly efficient within the constraints of 500 words. And it has snow!  

I will admit, the analytical side of my brain popped out at the last minute and asked, Does he have to quit? Can't he just refuse the promotion? How will they eat?

But the emotional side spoke up and said, Hush. It's romantic. Go with it.

And so I shall. Well done, Donna.