Monday, December 17, 1990. 7:19 P.M.He doesn’t call again until the second anniversary of our first date. The restaurant is closed on Mondays in December, and when I wake up, the snow is coming down thick from the sky and has been for some time by the looks of it. I throw on some clothes, step into my boots, and leave the apartment. I stop at the coffee shop at the corner of my street and buy a huge hot chocolate to take with me on a walk.
Anyone trapped outside is in a hurry; their faces are scrunched up, their heads covered in scarves and hats and hoodies to protect themselves from the relentless snow, but not me. I stroll through the neighborhood park with my face upturned to the sky, reveling in the precipitation, looking down just when I take a sip from my cup.
My fingers grow cold
