From the window, I can see it’s snowing outside. Again. I press my hands to the sill, but can’t feel any of the coldness. Even the glass of the window doesn’t feel cool, just tepid, as does my forehead and skin. They have for the past months. My chest heaves with deep breaths as I watch each snowflake falling, thinking about what it feels like to be water made so beautiful, only to fall and intermingle with the fluff on the ground and vanish forever, never to be remembered. I suppose it’s a hard existence, like mine. I don’t want to be maudlin, though. She doesn’t like it when I’m sad. So I turn from the window, close the shades, and go back under the covers, thinking about what she’ll have me make for dinner.