“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight, my love. Do you hear them?”
He nods and turns the newspaper, the crinkle irritating my ears no worse than his silence. I look out the window, watching as a young couple walk by, headed towards the cathedral. They stop beneath the streetlamp. Her words are inaudible. He holds her gloveless hands in his, rubs them vigorously, raises them to his mouth and blows his warm breath on them. She giggles, her cheeks pink from the cold. The snowflakes dance in the light, shading them in white. He kisses her.
Behind me, he turns the page again. Crinkle crinkle.