I hope it snows soon.

An old man stands by the entrance. The cigarette between his fingers is slowly falling apart. As it becomes shorter and shorter so do the breaks he takes between each drag. He senses the approaching end. The doors slide open, close. Nameless, faceless, strangers leave and enter without much time between the two. The only difference is when they leave their arms are laden with plastic sacks straining to contain their bulging insides, the repeating logo printed on the bag expanded past recognition. They turn away from the old man. He calls to them. But they pretend not to hear. They’re engrossed in the glowing screens before them, or a tassel hanging from their hat -recently dragged out of a musky closet- or maybe just a thought suddenly occurring to them, conveniently. Things are much too loud for them to hear the man’s insistent crackling voice. Much too loud on this muted, muffled night. Cars swoosh past on a nearby highway, surpassing the speed limit. The neon sign buzzes overhead trying to push back the suffocating darkness. Empty straw nests are nestled in its nooks. Casting shadows through the twigs every time the middle letter shorts, and restarts, giant abandoned homes of winged creatures expand on the walls -a clearer signal of what the store offers then the glowing name. The display is distorted by white blobs that float through the air lazily drifting before settling to the ground, forming numerous piles and shapes all instantly mingling with the dirty slush. The fresh white will soon be stained brown like the layers underneath it. Old and new mingling in the worst way. The air inside the car is changing. Slowly the warmth that radiated from the vents is being leeched away by the creeping cold. The fight is weighted heavily in favor of the cold as it sinks into the steering wheel. The inside of the car is quite a contrast to the snowy soft outside. Sharp corners. Hard plastic. Seats that skin sticks to. Consciously cleaned, specifically stylized. No place for the light snow, or the sneaking cold. Suddenly the old man realizes he is being watched. His head swerves and his eyes meet mine through the fogging glass. The dashboard almost shatters under his sharp gaze. His stare shoots through me like a bullet and my thoughts scatter like my insides would. After a moment I realize he doesn't really see me. At least not clearly. Like the drifting white all around I am not quite solid to him. I am not yet a pile of slush slowly becoming dirty sludge. I float; an unrecognizable shape, avoiding the sharp corners and the sticky seat, soon to be melted by heat that will escape the vent when a key sparks the ignition.