Kinda missing Canada...

In the evening, the snow fell lightly like down and the houses around them were brightly lit, standing still, silent and white as their chimneys puffed glowing izles into the sky. No wind stirred to break the tranquil January air and the only sound came from the hum of traffic on a nearby road and the soft, assertive crunch of the clean, fresh snow underfoot. The night was cold and their noses stung with its crystallised freshness. She had learned by now to hold her breath for the photos so the printed memories didn't come out misty, with everyone shrouded by a thick nebulous cloud of breath that made the people like ghosts.
But the memories she would take home with her were not glossy and framed by four sides, sliced neatly and filed away for future reference. Her memories had sound and smelled like the cedar on his clothes. They tasted like the cigarettes on his breath and looked like flesh in the pitch black darkness of early morning. That darkness that crept through the walls and the firmly curtained windows before dawn and brought with it the thick foggy dampness from outside. That heavy black pitch that made her grateful for the warmth of a second body under the covers.
That evening, she had held to his hand for warmth. He had let her bury it deep in the furnace of his jacket and she had listened and walked while he talked, his mouth full of words.
Finally, they reached the humming road. Cars had left black tracks in the snow across six lanes. Framed in shimmering and commercial reds and blues on either side, the road was alive between traffic lights with skidding muddy wheels, the motorists especially careful now across the fresh snow to stay in control of temperamental steering wheels.
The couple paused for a second at the snowdrift before lifting their knees high and the snow was suddenly in their boots and pitilessly biting their toes. Feigning shock at the invading cold, the girl cried out and stopped in the middle of the road and he turned to console her, his heart quickening just a little at the sight of her standing so vulnerable in the third lane. Almost without thinking, he grabbed her hand and dragged her to the traffic island and tilted his head, warming her to her very toes with his kiss. The flow of cars either side of them had resumed and they were trapped on the small safe strip of concrete, the three lanes to the left and to the right transformed again into knotted streams of shifting light. They were left with no choice but to wait and absorb the distilled instantaneous pleasure of being at once vulnerable and safe, alive in the midst of the roar.
She smiled and took the photograph, careful to hold her breath.