She sat in the corner, facing the wall, with a woven shawl draped over her shoulders. I sipped my whiskey and watched her from the couch. Her hair shimmered in the flickering candlelight. The room was mostly quiet, but I could hear her crying. She tried to hide it, but couldn't. I didn't approach her. I just drained my glass and looked away to a large painting hanging on the wall opposite me. It had a tarnished bronze frame, but was quaint all the same. I heard her chair slide back and turned my head. She stood up, wiped her eyes, and turned around.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be. It's fine. I don't mind."
"It's rude."
"It isn't."
She walked toward me, swiping at a few stray tears. "More?" She nodded at my glass.
"Sure. I'm not one to reject free whiskey." I smiled, tried to lighten the mood.
"Oh, I know," she said. And she offered a half-smile, but it was disingenuous.
But she was trying.
She took my glass from me and walked over to the mantle. She took a decanter down and filled my tumbler. She didn't return the decanter to the place she had gotten it. Instead, she just set it down on a nearby end table and returned to me. She gave me my glass and then sat down on a wooden chair she had pulled from her writing desk earlier that night and faced me.
She didn't say anything though. Not right away. She just sat there and watched me. I was somewhat uncomfortable so I drank a little faster than I might have otherwise (it was a very good bourbon) and finally decided to strike up a conversation. Anything would be better than this.
"So I heard it's supposed to snow in a couple of days."
"Oh? In March? I've never known of it to...