The Americans

He’s growing his beard - it’s the abrasive season. She’s precarious as the ice clamped tight on their street, water under the glaze like wine in a glass.

He pours her another. Without either acknowledging it, they’re drinking the whole bottle, feet to the fire, watching French ski shooters chase Norwegians on TV. “Please can’t we be European?” he says to himself. She turns to him, raises her glass, so he might have spoken aloud. “Eventually flames will burn it all away,” he thinks, careful now not to move his mouth. He does not want to alarm her. “While we watch from our tasteful sofa, me in stubble and angst, you all sturm and drang, the continents sticking out their sharp elbows.”