no cold comfort

Snow in Paris. It feels like the first time every time. Looking at the tiny white flakes fall from the sky, he marveled at the sheer number required in order to paint the whole of Paris white. He held out his hand to touch the snow flakes. They melted into small blobs of water the moment they landed on his palm. He felt a little guilty as the warmth of his palms had snuffed the life out this little bit of living magic. He redrew his hand quickly. He grimaced at the irony of how some people, like the snow, do not appreciated the warmth of an outstretched hand.

"Private Propriety"-cj

I know. I saw the sign and I kept away.