Amanda Lambrock

She didn't have any reason to, but she wondered what had happened to the man she had seen on the train. He had winked at her, between puffs of steamy breath. The air was cold and light. Everything seemed louder to her lately. She wondered if in the winter, because it was denser if sound traveled better or worse. A thought briefly fluttered: whales sounds could be heard hundreds or thousands (she forgot which) of miles away. Thicker air must carry sound farther, maybe louder too. Do they work together, she wondered.

The man had on a blue knitted hat and sunglasses, which were frosted just a little in one corner. He had no facial hair at all and bright red, although cracked, lips. They seemed soft and ready to be kissed. But he was gone, with the train.

They went to the new neighborhood for the first time on a chilly, sunny Saturday morning. The houses were golden while the leafless trees watched frost melt inch by inch. It was quiet and obviously residential, which she loved and he felt anxious about. They were scouting a single-family house for sale because that's what they did with their spare time now.

He was short with dark forgotten hair and sideburns growing out of his beard, untended gardens. She was taller and had wisps of grayed hair, which he said looked like highlights. Their children were at someone's else house and they were smiling because of it.