“Okay, then, if you're sure," he said again and I almost blurted, "I'd consider hitting my mother in the back of the head with a snow shovel if kissing you was in the cards." But I though that would come off as needy.”

“I think, therefore I am, said a man whose mother quickly hit him on the head, saying, I hit my son on the head, therefore I am.No no, you've got it all wrong, cried the man.So she hit him on the head again and cried, therefore I am.You're not, not that way; you're supposed to think, not hit, cried the man.. . . I think, therefore I am, said the man.I hit, therefore we both are, the hitter and the one who gets hit, said the man's mother.But at this point the man had ceased to be; unconscious he could not think. But his mother could. So she thought, I am, and so is my unconscious son, even if he doesn't know it . . .”

“Another snowball, this time it impacted on my shoulder. I dusted the snow off my coat with my free hand and gave him the biggest stinkeye I could muster.“How old are you again? Twelve?”He grinned, teeth white as the snow he gathered. “Old enough to make you come, young enough to make you hate me for it.”“Oh jeez,” I muttered, shaking my head, and turned around.Bam.Snowball to the back of my head.”

“It's very ugly' I said generously. 'But it looks as though it would laugh at snow. And, if you hit a deer it would hiccup, and keep going.”

“I'd give anything if you'd kiss me." I said. "I mean," I said when he tilted his head to look at me, his eyes wide in shock, "I've kissed guys before. It's like a handshake these days," I lied, just wanting to know what his lips on mind would feel like. "Almost required if you're leaving.”

“In many ways I was an independent woman. For years I'd made my own choices, paid my own bills, shoveled my own snow.”