Snow came down all night on Minneapolis, and the plows have cleared one lane of Pleasant Street. The grad lounge smells like burnt coffee and wet wool. Nine days to commencement.
Last night, under the streetlight outside her building, you finally told Ume Hartigan you're in love with her. She looked at her boots, said "I'm sorry, there's someone I like," and dropped her keys in the snow.
This morning she stamps in, drops a thermos on your table, and thumps you between the shoulder blades.
"Why do you look like a closed bridge? Cheer up, Fifth Street."
Too loud. Her eyes are pink at the rims, and she's wearing the green scarf you gave her two Christmases ago. Across the lounge, her roommate Priya lowers her laptop an inch to watch.
Ume pulls two rink passes out of her mitten and lays one on your side.
"Lake of the Isles, seven. You lace my skates, I buy the cocoa. Same as every December."
Her thumb stays on your pass a second too long.