White Stuff

Hot breathe twirls from his lips into the evening, like spiraling smoke from a cigarette.
He's standing under a street light, waiting, an orange cone surrounding him, snow falling through it, littering the ground.
White stuff everywhere.
The night is quietest when it snows.
I'm flipping the cover of a match book open and closed, flashing the phone number that she wrote on the inside flap. I could use a cigarette right now.
But I don't smoke and the thought of needing a cigarette right now makes me wonder if it's really been that kind of day.
A text message buzzes on my phone in my pocket, the phone beep ripping through the tranquility.
I flip open the phone: "10 min."
Reply: "Cold. Any faster?"
There's waiting. And white stuff falling all around. And after a minute: "No. Sorry."
He waits, the man under the light. And I wait.
I'm not sure he sees me.
And I start typing a message on my phone and start walking, thinking that I don't want to wait in this cold, that the walking might warm up my blood.
It's a soft snow, a powder snow, and the man under the light doesn't hear me coming. He's startled as I walk past. I don't really pay much attention, keep texting.
"Hey, man, have a light?" He calls.
And I throw back the matches I have in my pocket. "You need this number?" He calls back.
And I wave my hand no.
The streets are empty, like the snow is a disease no one wants to touch.
Walking, she calls me.
"I've been up since 5 a.m., honey." She says.
"Was it a good day or bad day?"
"It was a work day."
The moon squints from behind a screen of clouds. For a moment there is blue light, the white stuff shimmering with it. The dark silhouettes of the fingers of trees stand out in the night now, reaching up and clawing, then disappearing as the moon falls back under its blanket, lost.
"Tell me a story."
"What?"
"Tell me a story. Keep me awake."
"Long day?"
"I'm trying to make my way home now, driving. Keep me awake."
A car navigates a road of slush, makes a sloshing sound as it goes on, cones of light beaming from its hood. And I'm alone again, save for the electric wires forming a speaker in my ear.
"I don't know if I have anything."
"Come on." Her voice is fluid, soft, like milk, if a voice could be like milk. Like verbal white stuff: words falling slowly, carelessly, almost meaningless, but beautiful when they land, perfect, her tone pure.
I tread through the snow, ruining the perfect film in my wake.
"Maybe last Friday, that was strange."
"OK."
"I come home from class. Everyone is in their underwear when I walk in. Keep in mind I live with only one person. I have no idea who the others are and ask what the hell is going on. They say they'll be done in a minute. And I left. Went to a bar."
"That's it?"
"I'm not really sure how it ended for them."
"There is no end?"
"Nothing spectacular. I came back and the place was empty."
There's a pause and in the tranquility of the falling snow you could hear the silence. I switch hands to give each equal time in a warm pocket while the other braves the elements.
"I remember that I miss your thoughtless, meaningless stories."
I remember that I miss her.
"What are you doing?" She asks.
"Walking home, in the cold."
"We'll keep each other company, then."
In the distance I hear sirens. But it's only in the distance. I walk on the street, talking on the phone, because no one is on the street. It's 1 a.m. on a snow day. For me, the clocks have stopped. There's only white stuff.