Irons And Lace
Cynthia Donahue watched snow flakes flit like jewels against the street's brilliance. Low hanging clouds cupped the light like a hand, pressing it firmly down against the flawless snow winking iridescently across the sidewalk and lawn. The low irregular masses of azaleas bulked against the whiteness, crowned with grotesque wigs of fresh snow, their shadows ink dark and dense. Cynthia could feel the bitter cold radiating from the window to her skin but the warmth of the bedroom enfolded her...