Everett is a doleful figure. His hair is wild, and dirty like a mop resting on the top of his head, holding stories and secrets of all the places he's been.
His green irises don't say much, and have never before met anyone’s. They are weary and scan over the lost pages of Wuthering Heights which he’s persuaded me to read so many times over, yet I haven’t found the time. He says he's from somewhere in the Southwest, and never imagined snow to be so cold.
I wish I knew what the sun was like, I tell him. We are tired of the fireplace and cocoa in paper cups, but we don't complain.
And maybe if this Everett hadn't said he didn't like me much, I think I might have actually been in love with him.