The masks were thin, pliable. They attached to her skin, seamless. They emoted for her, always appropriate, guaranteed to fetch the reaction she wanted.
The Weatherman describes the snow as dumping. Feathery bundles fall against all things and accumulate against all things, and besides that: the grey, and the cawing of invisible birds.
People—and I mean even absolute strangers—they’ll just talk and talk and talk and they expect you to listen to their whole life story. Have you ever experienced this? Do you know what I mean?