Standing outside in the dark unloading the Christmas tree from the back of my car days after the holiday had passed, the fierce hand of the cold front pressed itself into my exposed skin. My body shivers and it's like watching the cold front pull in to port: it's cargo hold full of black nights, warm bodies beneath blankets and sheets, and cold hands on icy beers around roaring fires.

Kissing outside because a dangerous proposition as the act itself and the entailed clutching and breathing seem to be the only things keeping you warm despite layers of clothing, yet there is that small fear in the back of you mind that if you open your mouth then the cold air will invade your lungs and snatch out all the warmth you've mustered. Or, the other fear that you might try to part and the spare saliva on your lips will have frozen the two of you together, locked together forever until you freeze to death; or make it inside to dethaw.