They talked about coffee for five minutes. “Espresso” and “mocha” rolled off their lips – dry and pale the way the winter grounds are – in harmony, disappearing into the wind – the relentlessly cold wind.
After a while, the discussion shifted into something sweeter, grabbing thirst from the bottom of their throats to the surface, aching and urging their accelerating heartbeats to seek relief.
The snow was greedy today. It swallowed the earth and – on its way – the sun beneath their shoes; two separate shadows never afforded to touch, keeping the fear and awkwardness between the tips of their fingers. Their skin urging to fuse, returning to its original form as old friends from one fallen star.
Then, in one daring moment, courage surged in them; A hand was placed on the other’s shoulder, stitching Their shadows, Their skins, and Their images to the people surrounding. A step followed another as They debated about whipping cream and its appropriate appearance in a cup of latte. To other ears nearby, it is a fight about Their place in the snow-filled public park.
In the same way the weather pierced through Their beings, a hand grabbing Their contact point shook Them to the core. A man breathed heavily onto Their spaces, refusing to distance himself no matter how hard They resisted and screamed. Even when They slowed down due to his weight, the man dragged himself along with the following steps.
The next thing They knew were two pairs of hands, lean and covered with dirt by women wrapping around Their waists. Literal chains and balls made with fleshes and bones. Their voices, Their screams for help, drowned amongst the grunts and shallow breaths of more bodies plaguing Their shadows on the snow.
A hand poked between Their necks, then another, another, and another. Faces stared up at Them from Their chests, chins digging into Their ribs to the point bruises engraved into Their lungs. Hair brushed past Their noses. Bodies. Bodies clouded Their vision. They could not see each other anymore. Squished and squished until Their steps faltered.
Somebody’s knees cut into Theirs. Both kneeled on the snow; yet, Their brains could not even register the cold. Then, Their shoulders, Their armpits, were being ripped apart, as though They were dough, were pure clay expected to mould into whatever shape people desired. Pierced. Punched. Crashed. They were no different from being under a bus – not dead, but not quite alive. Palpating were Their heartbeats, but Their fleshes did not seem like belonging to Them anymore. Their will to stay in the moment – to hang on, to live – was then a fragile thread. So frail in the snow.
The tips of Their fingers were numb, with snow shoved against Their bare skins. It was uncontrollable – what They did and what They were going to do.
Their limbs were stretched thin.
The hand on the shoulder, once a timid and minimal point of contact, was being slowly removed. A thumb was off. The pinky one. The index. The middle. A half of the ring finger, connected directly to the heart.
And it was all quiet.
Disappearing along the noises were the touches between skin.
Thin air rushed past their torsos with how quick the people removed themselves, rushing and tumbling to go away. Leaving no trace as though the strange touches were mere crashing waves.
They stole glances at each other, blood and wounds scattered all over their figures, hair pointing to every direction in existence. Their lips, smeared with saliva, raised in the corners – not too high – to a bitter, tired, and defeated smile, or rather just the opposite of a frown.
Each stood up on their own, legs wobbling on the flat ground, arms not daring to reach out to help the other. Not anymore. Slow steps started returning to motions.
Amongst the screams of the wind, they settled on having cream, brown sugar, and condensed milk at the bottom of a drink.
