The memory is quick, moving too fast, flickering like a movie projection under a bad bulb. You're standing outside a house, a few steps down a stairway that leads to the street. There's a party going on inside, but snow is falling which is keeping anyone from coming out to join you. You just wanted a little quiet, and it's nice out here, and you don't mind the cold or the snow in your hair.
The memory catches, snaps forward. You're you but there, there's (you) her, descending through the snow, looking like a dark vision in all that white.
And she comes right up to you, ask for a light. Your hands don't shake as you offer it, as you watch her smoke a cigarette. The pair of you stand together in the snow, and she doesn't say a single word the whole time. Neither do you, staring, trying to think of something to say.
She turns and goes back into the house with a faint, distant smile, already pretty drunk, probably going back to look for whoever she's decided to spend the night with.
Someone not you. Because you're a coward. Because you couldn't think of anything to say. Empty, blank shock fills in with regret, bitter and harsh, growing more and more intense until it's whirling in circles and you kick the rail of the steps, which does nothing at all except hurt your foot. Smarting, cold, lighter so icy it's sticking to your fingers.