Call it coincidence that her taxi had pulled off a mere fifteen feet in front of him; call it happenstance that she had tripped, wrapped in her long red coat and for all the world appearing like a wounded soldier falling in a war; declare it a twist of fate, if you must, that he stepped near enough to grab her before she hit the ground.
Snowflakes were swimming in lazy descent, too light to really add to the slushy banks in the street. The cold was there, but the city was moving too quickly to be frozen in place.
His gloves had been in the left pocket of his navy jacket. He was cold, yes, but the gritty numbness kept him awake, made him less likely to trudge forward on cocooned autopilot--it happened often, the droning: Bundled people walking with their heads down, hands clothed in leather or fur or cloth and buried in pockets, their minds only occupied with the singular thought of staying warm. He hated that. There was too much to see, nobody but him to notice it.
He was aware, in the back of his mind, of her taxi door opening in front of him, roughly fifteen feet forward and on his right. The stark red of her coat registered as odd against the grey and white and black of the city's muted backdrop. Ten feet away and she was standing, closing the taxi door, gloves clenched in her left hand. He saw her as he saw the boy to his left, huddled in the lee of the doorway to Gerry's Book House and bouncing from foot to foot to stay warm, all the while holding his fists together at his lips and breathing, transferring the warmth from his lungs. Her presence was no more significant than that of the couple across the street, visible behind her taxi, exiting a bakery and laughing and smiling and walking arm in arm, he leaning close to say something, nothing, in her ear. The nuances of the city were most awake inside the cold.
Her taxi door was closed and she turned to step onto the sidewalk, he was next to her now, and her foot slipped on the melting ice. An exclamation, "Oh!" and she was falling.
He would have done the same for anyone else, he later thought. She fell and he stepped forward and reached out and caught her. Not a storybook rescue: It was rough and unplanned and stiff in the snow and their bundled coats. She grabbed his hand, a startled look still forming on her soft features. Her cheeks were red, though whether from the chill or embarrassment it was hard to tell.
At the touch of her hand he felt suddenly warm, which he would later attribute to a lapse in the wind or the opening of the door to the bookstore. The warmth made no sense; her hands were as cold as his. Yet there it was, creeping down his arms and through his chest.
She stood up, regained her balance, brushed her hair out of her face. Glanced at the hand he had grabbed. He saw that she was flexing it, opening and closing unconsciously. He didn't quite know what to say, asked, "You okay?" Looked at his own hand, shook his head.
"Yes," she said. "Thanks." A distracted smile. "Lost my balance there." She fidgeted with her gloves.
"The ice can be slick," he said. They were each pointing out the obvious. "Well, watch out the rest of the day, yeah?" The taxi was gone now. He hadn't noticed its departure.
"Of course." A pause, a silence, only the breathing of the clouds.
He pointed down the street. "Well, I'm off this way, so..."
She nodded. "I'm the other way. Thanks, again, really." She made a movement to walk, paused again, her hand still opening and closing, unaware.
"Have a good one, then," he said, smiled halfway.
"Same to you."
The sky was as grey as it always was in February. He remembered his gloves in his pocket. He pulled them on, then tucked his hands into his pockets, trudged ahead, his shoulders and arms pulled in close. He ducked his head, noticing for once how cold the city could be.
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