It was the days growing shorter, shrinking to slivers, sad smiles of light. It was a golden hour that flickered across the sky at 3 p.m. and then gassed out. It was us reaching for each other's bodies in blistered air, dreaming of Parisian wine bars. It was morning slipping a wet gray skin over the bones of the city. It was the snow that came and went, intermittent and as lazy about the season as I was about my work. It was all that futile activity-ironing, emptying the dishwasher, applying masks and creams, painting my nails. It was the empty bar down the street and the rat rustling in the yard near our drinks. There were so few events just then, and only the sky changed. It was the way we invented diversions and became almost good at it. It was almost enough but not enough. It was you staying up all night, and me moving through clouded rooms, different perspectives.