Her laugh is the sound of dry wood cracking down the middle, of tin foil balled up in a rage, of icy snow crunched underfoot. Her hands are so chapped, that if I look closely enough, I can see camels and sun-baked men trudging slowly over the rolling hills of her desert fingers. She hates gloves, because she likes to feel everything. Her hands are always touching something - her tan cashmere sweater, the split ends of her hair, the crinkled napkin in front of her. Her knees are the ugliest part of her; gnome-like, with deep dimples and stretch marks so oddly comical, that they appear to be a grimacing face. She loves sitcoms, sometimes so much that her laughter begins to sound like the canned type that erupts after that nerdy character Sheldon says something stupid, like he can’t drive. Her laugh. What happened? Was it me? Could I be put on trial for having kidnapped my lover’s laugh? Now, I’m chopping wood for the cold fireplace. I’m wrapping my kid’s lunch. Tuna in tin foil. I stomp across the driveway lathered in icy snow, hand in hand with my bus-bound kid. I’m so dead gone on her. But she’s dead and gone.