Ray stood at the window, forehead against the grimy pane. Fraser didn't ask. Only Stella left that telltale defeated slump to his shoulders, and that bruised tightness around his eyes.
"It's like snow, y'see?"
"What is, Ray?"
"All white and fluffy and--"
"--pure, but when it hits the ground, wham, nothing but brown slush," he said flatly. "Don't ever fall in love, Frase. It's hell."
Fraser knew better. Snow was white. And heavy. And cold. First it burned, then it numbed, then you felt nothing and you died.
Inside, the two men stood frozen in silence. Outside, it snowed.