The wind stung against my cheek like the Gun and I struggled to keep up with Johnny through the pelting snow. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks as my body tried to keep me warm. The lavender silk scarf that my mother had bought me three years prior was wrapped tightly around my face and I could see the shallow smoke of my breath seeping through with every hurried step. I kept hoping that maybe the garment would help. It didn’t. Contrary to popular belief (or rather, my mother’s), silk scarves serve almost no purpose other than to look extremely chic or extremely gay. Or, as was in my case, extremely both. Johnny trudged through the entourage of passers-by, narrowly dodging their on-coming stampede. Boston was never my favorite place, especially not two days before Christmas.
I rushed to catch up with him, and when he was just within arm’s reach, I lost my footing and slipped on a patch of ice. The world came out from under me and I landed hands-first onto the sidewalk, scraping my palms along the cold, jagged cement.
There was nothing I could do but sit there as the boots of the barreling pedestrians threatened to trample me. I glanced upward, trying to scan the masses for him, but Johnny was nowhere.