It was only hours ago, after the argument, that she left, saying she may not come back. He apologized over and over as she donned her coat and hat, leaving the front door open as she trudged out into the snow. The inner walls of the cabin were a library of wooden slats, rich brown knotty pine, the color of shellac, made deeper by orange reflections from the fire. The heat from the bedroom fireplace that night was overpowering, tamed a bit by a window thrown open, but nonetheless uncomfortable. Sadly, looking into the darkness, he felt the cool air from the window. He could see shadow-blotted shimmerings on the face of the nearby iced-over pond, and a set of her footprints in the snow heading into the woods. A yellow moon was shifting behind the pines and the distant shouts of dogs echoed in the night. Light snow was still falling, making the scene from the window look like a Christmas card as he stood there crying. She had always been just a pillow away, connected and separated by a million good and bad intangibles between them. And then, as he slept alone on the bed, he heard footsteps on the front porch, and gradually, the bedroom door began to slowly creak open. She stood smiling in the firelight, cheeks blushing from the cold, melted snowflakes sparkling like gems on her fur hat and the collar of her brown wool coat. And as she romoved her hat, hair of midnight black tumbled over her  shoulders. Slowly and seductively, she removed her gloves, tip by tip, precise as mathematics, as he watched from the bed. And later that night, he found that the tears of sadness and joy taste almost the same.