She seems distracted. Looking at the snow.
“They can’t all be unique,” she says.
We’re in the family room, curled up together on the couch. On the television, Walt’s yelling at Jesse about something. She pays no attention. Fireplace off, central heat kicking. From under her blanket she’s looking at the snow.
“Snowflakes?” I say.
“Since the dawn of time, there must have been…” She cocks her head, doing the math. “Ninety-nine gazillion snowflakes. No way none of them gets a dupe. Sooner or later, we’re bound to get a repeat.”
“What happens then?”
She lights up, hands clutching at unseen foes. “Then it’s a sign!”
“The end times! Snowmageddon! Hailpocalypse! Icenarok!” She punches her palm. “Bam, just like that. Snow runs out of ideas, it’s all over, baby. Hell hath no fury like a macroscopic ice crystal scorned.”
Her eyes go dreamy, and I know…
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