The windows fog over in the car as she shivers, which is a bit ludicrous, but you try not to think of the fact that the air is colder than 32 degrees and she doesn't have a proper coat. You don't think about the fact that your shoes are likely ruined (canvas moccasins, yeah, fine, you're a hippy at heart) or that the strange burnt hair smell emanating from the car's heater is probably due to the fact that you never have to use it.
Instead, you study the features of her face which are silvered in the frosty light; you watch the snowflakes brush past the window and create iridescent droplets on the windshield, how they pock her red hair with slightly darker spots; and it's trapped, there in the car, the beauty and barrier of the cold and the invitation to wrap your arms around her, all there within the leather-scented interior (okay, fine, you're not such a hippy).
Her eyes are almost black in the dim light, but when she smiles, the pupils grow smaller, and the smell of her perfume is warmed by the notes of her own scent as she leans towards you. Your hand goes up, to ward her off or to draw her forward – the choice isn't made until you come in contact with her soft red hair and untwist it from its chignon at the back of her head. As the tresses tumble down to rest by her cheek, you untangle your fingers from the strands, tip her face up, and kiss her.
You know you'll probably regret this in the morning. She's an acquaintance by her own choice only. But snow in L.A. is a discrepancy in normal programming.
It's a strange, foreign sort of beauty that deserves more than the average glance. And try as you might to forget her, it's not easy when she's huddled in your car, two-inch heels wet to the sole of the shoe from the slush, and drawing from the warmth of your chest and from the dull air from the heater.
Her lips are soft and you get a sense of spearmint before she pulls away and shakes her head. But as she leaves the car – as she gathers her things to go, she stops, suddenly, and turns back.
"This is not going to be a normal thing," is all she says.
You nod, pretending she means the snow. "God, I hope not."
She shakes her head and laughs, choosing to let the moment pass. But she brushes her hand over yours; she smiles again, without satire or malice.
"Thanks for driving me to my car."
The cold air from the door is chilling, but as you drive away, tires slipping on the slick surfaces, you can't help but feel that the temperature dropped when she left.
Snow in L.A. sucks this time of year. After tonight, you're sure of it.
You know you prefer raw, windy heat.