Tuesday

Stepping out of your townhome you’re hit by the cold first. You were expecting it. Laid out your heaviest coat the night before. But the way that first breath crystalizes in your lungs feels like a kick to the chest no matter how prepared you were. You pull your coat tighter and try not to slip on the thin skin of ice that glazed your street overnight.

Next door, your neighbor kneels in front of his daughter. He alternates between blowing into his cupped hands to warm them and tying her pink snow shoes. You recognize the cartoon dog on one. Paw Patrol. Your niece loves that show.

“I’m sorry,” he offers with a smile and a small wave. “I had extra sal por your a.. steps, but Maria is late to school.” You love the way he says her name, his thick accent drawing it out into Ma-ree-ja. Its musical.

You laugh and brush the offer away, “No! Don’t worry, Robert! That’s kind of you to offer! I’ll get it later, I’m running late myself.”

He gives you a broad smile, promises to get it once he gets back but you’re already stepping away from the stoop. Adjusting your coat again, trying to keep the gusts from slipping in. Spring is a few months away, you think. And with it the ice will melt and you’ll be warm again. Until then you keep up your pace.

The walk isn’t long but up ahead you see a crowd forming. You glance down both sides of the road and cross to the other sidewalk where it looks clear. You can slip past the logjam and still make it with a few minutes to spare. You should've taken a cab, you think.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” You hear someone yell. You’ve lived in the city long enough to know that if you don’t recognize the voice, you keep walking. The commotion continues. You can't help but look behind you.

Police. Two of them. Someone on the ground. You're almost to your office. You duck your head back down. And then you hear it. The sound of wet meat hitting pavement.

The shouting gets louder behind you, but you reach for the door and then you're inside. Warm again.

You take the elevator to your floor and make a beeline for the breakroom. Running late meant no time for coffee. Nancy, your HR director stands in front of the fridge, looking at the expiration dates on bottles of liquid creamer. “I guess the coconut crème is still good.” She sniffs a different bottle and winces, holding it in front of her as she walks to the trash. “I hope you don’t like French Vanilla.

Behind her, on the television, a reporter stands in front of yellow tape. The ticker scrolls beneath her: Third incident this month.

You pour coffee into your mug, reach for the blue bottle of coconut creamer, “Love the stuff.” You say, pouring it in and watching it swirl. She reaches past you for the remote and changes the channel. A sitcom and canned laughter fill the room. You make your way to your desk.

The morning passes. Emails. Q1 projections. Today is someone’s birthday sheet cake on paper plates gets passed around in the third-floor conference room. You eat your slice and try to ignore the way the cheap frosting coats your teeth.

Sometime around noon your phone lights up, a push notification from The Post. You skim it: middle east protests continue; ballroom delayed?; Nurse killed in—A text comes through, you click on the preview

Sam: Margs tonight? Rachel has book club. Mi Viejo, 9?

You tap out a quick and enthusiastic ‘Yes!’— You didn’t have dinner plans and margaritas sound incredible. Besides, you haven’t seen Sam much since he and Rachel had the baby.

At five you shut down your computer. The walk back takes you past that corner again. The crowd is gone. You see a stain on the pavement, can't tell if it's orange or red from this distance. The scent of something sharp and chemical lingers in the air. It catches in your throat and tingles a little. You turn toward home.

You almost slip again on your steps and think about Robert’s offer to salt your stairs. You should’ve said yes. You look over at his. Also unsalted and icy. Maybe once you get home you’ll do it for him. He’s always offering to help. This time you’ll return the favor and do it for him. But first, dinner. In the cold, physical labor is done best with alcohol warming your blood.

You change into jeans, a sweater. Decide to take your car to Mi Viejo. The heater takes forever to warm up and you’re almost there by the time it kicks in. You glance up from the thermostat in time to swerve, narrowly avoiding an abandoned car on the side of the road, hazards still blinking.

Then again, a few blocks down, this one with the driver's side door open, hanging like broken wing. The radio plays something you don't recognize, a K-pop song with a good beat. You turn it up.

Inside, the restaurant is loud with conversation and music. Sam is already at a booth in the back. You slide in across from him, look around for a server. Manage to flag down a young woman with dark hair glued to her forehead with sweat. She holds up a finger, carries stacks of dishes into the back.

Sam shovels chips into his mouth, talks around them. "You see there was another one?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, this one was some guy. The Post said he was a nurse?"

"Yeah, how sad—"

The waitress approaches, apologetic. "Sorry for the wait, we've been…” She looks at you and Sam, like she’s measuring her words. “short-staffed lately."

"No problem," Sam says, reaching for another handful of chips. "We understand."

She takes your order. You and Sam try to catch up the way friends do when separated by time, and life. You skim the surface, the baby's sleep schedule, whether they'll move to the suburbs, someone from college getting divorced. The margarita arrives, cold and salty. You order another round. The conversation drifts. You finish your drink and before long the conversation wanes.

You both make the empty promises “We’ll do this again, soon! Why not once a month! At least a regular text. I miss you, dude.”

You always mean it when you say it.

You drive home. The streets are quiet. Dark. You park and walk to the mailbox, sift through the stack as you head back inside. Bill. Bill. A flyer for gutter cleaning. In the middle, a letter addressed to Roberto Martinez, 2B. Your neighbor.

You walk to his door and knock. No answer.

Around this time of night you can usually hear him— laughing with his family, music playing, the smell of his cooking as it drifts toward your place. Garlic, onions, cilantro, it always makes your mouth water.

You knock again. Nothing.

You look through the window. The apartment is dark. No lights. No movement. You stand there for a moment, the letter in your hand. Maria's pink shoes aren't by the door and the layer of ice looks a little thicker than before.

You tap the letter against your hand and turn around, back to your own home. You put his mail on the counter, thinking you'll give it to him tomorrow. You clean up a little, lay on your couch, scroll through your phone until you feel sleep start tugging at your eyelids.

You brush your teeth. You set your alarm.

You get into bed.

The sheets are cold.

Spring is a few months away, you think. And with it, the ice will melt and you'll be warm again.

You close your eyes.