Caulifloret

It’s after midnight, and we’re cold. I’m without a mask—but the streets are well-emptied; only other gelid monsters roam, and they take no notice of us. I walk her to the house. Outside its front door, I say, pointing upward, this is the house, and I know it makes her happy to see it finally after high-stepping so far in the ice-crusted snow. She smiles with relief, and when she looks beyond me to the numbers on the door, she reads them aloud: one-oh-one Yeye Street, oh, I like it..