There were two other incidents similar to that, maybe three, but little to no crying. One took place just a few months after they met. Seventy-nine; February, or March. It was on the park side of Riverside Drive, right across from her apartment building. In fact, there was even another incident outside, much like this one, but he already went over it. It had snowed, was still snowing. Maybe ten inches. He watched it from her living room window and said “What do you say we go out and walk in the snow? I’ve always wanted to do that with the woman I loved and kiss her with snow on our noses.” “That’s sweet,” she said. “I don’t know about the snowy nose part, but I’d love to,” and they started to get dressed for the outside. “Boots, too,” he said, “so your feet don’t freeze. I’ll just put on two pairs of socks, if you loan me one of yours.” They didn’t walk far, maybe a block and back. Then at the wall separating the Drive from the park, she turned to look at the snow coming down over the river. He made a snowball and threw it at a tree. “Missed,” he said. “What?” and he said “The tree. Snowball.” She still hadn’t turned around. She was wearing a cap, gloves, her coat buttoned up to her neck. He had a cap on but had left his gloves in his apartment and his hands were getting cold. Time to go in, he thought. But first a little fun. He made a much smaller snowball, one not so compact as the one he threw at the tree, and lobbed it underhand at her. He’d aimed at her backside but it hit her just above her coat collar and got down her neck. “What are you doing?” she said, brushing herself off. “That’s cold and I can’t get it out. And I wasn’t prepared for it and could have slipped. I could break a leg here.” “I didn’t think I was doing anything bad, and hitting you so far up wasn’t where I was aiming. So, sorry once again,” and she said “What other time were you sorry for something with me?” and he said “Then this is the first. Here, let me help you,” because she had taken her gloves off and was trying to dig out the snow from in back, and he put his hand down her coat and got out what snow he could find. “Enough, already,” she said. “Your hand’s as cold as the snow. Thank you, but I’ll get out what’s left when we get home.” “Now, instead of that snowball, if I had grabbed you — that would have been something else,” and he pretended to cackle and put his arms around her and bent her back as if he were going to drop her into the snow. “What’s with you?” she said. “Let me up. You could slip, and my coat’s new,” and he lifted her back up and let go of her. She picked up a glove that had fallen and said “We better go inside.” “You’re angry,” and she said “Yes. I don’t like being bullied or scared or treated roughly or falling on my back. I didn’t think you were being funny, no matter what you might have thought,” and she stepped carefully over the snow — he put his hand out to help and she said “Don’t give me your hand; I don’t want it”—and waited for some cars to pass before she crossed the street to her building. In the elevator going up, he said “I’m sorry again, and this time it is again,” and she said “You should be. You acted like an immature kid.” “I know,” he said, “and also like a dope. But that’s not the first time I heard that in my life. Am I forgiven?” “I’ll think about it.” “Can I get the kiss I didn’t outside?” and she said “If you want. But do it before the door opens.”