It blew Olivine’s loose blonde curls against the side of her face and perfumed the air like lemons. The rhythm of the windshield wipers—ka skwunk, ka skwunk—reminded her of the silent game she played as a child. She would choose one of the raindrops, a ripe one on the periphery and she would track it as it inched its way across the windshield to join other raindrops; or else it went splashing off to the side as the car turned a corner. She liked keeping her eye on a single drop just to see what would happen to it. What its fate would be. How long could it last before it went flying off into the world or became absorbed into another group of drops? How long before it lost its own edges? When Paul made a sharp turn to get on the interstate, west toward home, the water on the windshield sloshed to the side, and the drop she was watching melded with the others. “It will be snowing at home,” Paul said. Olivine nodded. It would be snowing in their mountain town, an hour’s drive west.
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