It's always winter for her.
She sits across from him at the kitchen table,
drinking her warmth.
But it does not warm her.
He watches her,
and she feels the chill.
He is sipping a soft drink,
but it does not soften him.
Perhaps that's because it is mixed with hard liquor,
she thinks.

His irises are like two pieces of ice
floating in his eyeballs.
The cold glare
makes her shiver although the thermostat has been cranked all the way up.
However, she doesn't dare
to tell him, "it isn't polite to stare."
Instead,
she looks out the window at the falling snow.
He coughs.
She jumps, but doesn't look at him.
She tries not to think of the bruises,
and wonders what she might have done
this time to make him so angry.
At least he wasn't yelling
or bringing his fists down upon her.
She knows she should leave him.
He's frozen.
He's not going to melt.
She will stay, though.
She is still hoping that spring will come.