"This isn't where I expected us to be."

     "GPS didn't account for—" Bill rapped the machine, waited for directions, a detour. "Barricade." Grey filtering in at the temples, he never looked more handsome. "Kids expect us to be late, anyway."

     "They expect you to be late."

     "Meaning?"

     He'd pull out that necklace at the party, "surprise" her with his promotion. "Let's walk."

     "It's snowing."

     "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."

     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.

     Slotting up against a snowdrift, he nudged the door closed on her. "Can't get out that way."

     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?

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

     "Is there another man?"

     "Another man?" God, he didn't have a clue. "Isn't one jackass enough?"

     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."

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

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

     "But they're great for a swift kick in the ass."

     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.

     "I proposed Christmas Eve—"

     "Quit the job, sell the house."

     "—New Year's Eve, we made love at the cabin." He kissed a snowflake from her nose. "Serendipitous. The snow. We were snowed in on our honeymoon. Remember?"

     "Bill—"

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

     "I don't want some damned diamond. I want—" 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."

     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. "And in." He reached a hand under her skirt, ran his thumb over her thigh, melted the snow.