He passes three cars spun out on the side of the road, but since he put on his chains, perhaps too early, and did a full YouTube tune up that seems to have worked, he warily praises his judgement and presses on.
The plan was to be at the mountain for a half-day, but since she cancelled on him saying that she was seeing someone else (did she have to say that?) he drives, the chains under him bubbling like his upset stomach.
When the service cuts out, the cacophonous Alice Coltrane album he blares to give meaning to the icy madness subsides. He’s reaching out to see if he has any CDs but there are none since he took everything out of the glove box when he cleaned the car before picking up her up to go sledding four weeks ago.
A familiar point approaches, a tree covered in snow where they had turned around that weekend, he unsure if the car would be able to make it up the mountain, she justifiably angry since she had asked him to check the chains and the fluids. As he passes it he smiles, the tree now covered in three times the amount of white.
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