It was a short promontory jutting over the icy cape below, its surf like a thousand china shops shattering. The couple spoke loudly over the tumult, each stopping at some psychically predetermined point where they planted folding chairs beneath a crystalline pelt of stars. Shortly she saw the first ones–snowflakes like dust motes against the dark–before the summer flurry lost all inhibition.  It lasted less than ten minutes, a freak, beautiful spattering hijacking their quintessential August night, and still, years later, when their own winters took hold, they remembered.



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