Congestion clogs the left nostril only. My forehead feels fluid, like wax bubbling in a lava lamp. A scratchiness behind my eyelids.
Cars travel left to right, right to left, across the picture window smudged with nose prints. They send slippery icy sludge spraying from the tires as they pass.
The street light flickers on, sending glimmers dancing across the fresh, heavy snow.
On my lap, the feet twitch almost imperceptibly under the little furry body that expands and rises with each breath and then rhythmically falls. Her toys are her pillows and the colors match my leggings.