Snowstorm

It's snowing blossoms on the avenue. Pinks and whites, in swirling drifts. They alight on us as we pass each other by, men and women, boys and girls, walking through a featherlight snowstorm that falls like kisses.

I tell him about it later, during a stolen lunch-hour in the park.

It sounds like something out of a film, he says.

Yes, I say, head tilted back to watch the clouds go by. That's exactly what it is sometimes.