He looks out of his window, the sill extending to the roof thanks to the snow that fell during the pre-dawn hours. As far as he looks, the street and the yards and the houses and the cars that line the hallways down the hill are blanketed in a pure, clean white. He’s thinking of a world overpopulated by angels, or maybe children in spring church clothes.

The sky from edge to end is still thick with cotton, but holes here and there reveal the rising sun. It’s going to be a beautiful morning, he thinks; an inch or two of powder wouldn’t stop any other city, but here in the south, life will grind to a halt for a day or so.

He wants to call her, to tell her about the snow, but his chldlike enthusiasm wouldn’t go over so well at 5:15 in the morning. Especially about snow, something she sees everytime she walks out the door.

But it’s not really the snow that he wants to talk about. It’s not really talk that he’s interested in, as much as hearing her voice on the other end of the line. Her beautiful voice, something in it that he can’t quite pin down, but it’s a voice that he imagines people fall in love with, that he could easily fall in love with. And that’s before he even thinks about the laughter, and her eyes, and her smile, and everything else about her.

The computer speakers sing about plane rides and time slipping through. So much work to get done, and so much play, too, but the moment seems right to just sit and stare at the slowly brightening winter painting just past the glass. Headlights in the distance are a sign that someone blocks away is putting tracks in the smooth white cover, and he remembers how quickly the real beauty in life can pass. He’s learned to focus, to pay attention to the rare, to slow down time in the moments worth living, but even that requires recognition.

At some point closer to normal waking hours, he will call her, just to hear her voice, and maybe a laugh before she goes.