The Last Time I Loved Pride

She dreams of a man, then.

She feels that she knows him, somehow. Something about him so distinctly familiar and sad. His head is turned toward the sun, his legs crossed as they sit on a slanted rooftop and draw circles in the snow, like children. She draws her legs up to her chin and smiles into her knees because she thinks he's handsome, and because there are snowflakes collecting on his bald head.

"Ilensul," he says warmly, without looking away from the sky, "That cloud there. What does it look like to you?"

She looks up to where his finger is pointing, the outline of the cloud relatively unclear. But she plays the game. "Like...a wolf?" she guesses.

He cocks his head to the side, and the snowflakes fall off. He remains silent for a long time, and then he turns, only enough for her to see his small smile. Only enough to cause a flutter in her stomach.

"Like a wolf." He repeats.