“Yes.” She smirks. “But maybe I do. Besides, I’ll want to have a photo of you when you’re a famous filmmaker. Academy Award for Best Animated Feature is part of the ten-year plan.”

“Twenty-year plan,” I correct. “I don’t want to be unrealistic.”

“Ellie,” she says, her tone surprisingly serious. “I have full faith that you will accomplish whatever you set your mind to. Now.” She holds up her phone again. “Look like you don’t want to murder me, please.”

I drop my arms limply to my sides and shrug, as if to say, Like this?

She shakes her head. “No, show me you. This does not capture your essence.”

“I’m not sure you’ve known me long enough to comment on my essence.”

She eyes me through her phone screen. “I know your essence is not an awkward shrug.”

“Are you sure? An awkward shrug could definitely be my essence.”

She makes a restless, impatient sound with her tongue, and, not knowing what else to do, I lift my arms in the air, like a standing snow angel, and I twirl on one foot in a slow, sweeping arc in the middle of the bridge. Eyes closed, tongue out.

“How was that?” I ask, slightly dizzy and struggling to reorient myself.

She studies her phone with an unreadable expression, then takes a step closer to me. “Here.” She shows me. The photo is blurry, a few snowflakes sharply in focus in the foreground, and me in the background, a contrasting swirl of color: the muted dark brown of my braid and the pale white of my skin against the purple of my jacket, the blue of my hand-knitted scarf, the little slice of red that is smile and tongue.

“I think it’s perfect,” she says.

“My turn.” I snatch her phone and wheel it around on her. There she is, in portrait mode, nearly six feet tall, steady with her feet in the snow. “Show me your essence.”

She shoves her fists into the pockets of her khaki coat, flashes me a sideways smile, and leans back against the guardrail separating the bridge from the river below. Her essence: perfectly distilled into a single pose, as if she knows, so unequivocally, who she is.

I take the picture.

She reaches out for me. “One more,” she murmurs before she wraps an arm around my waist. I know I can’t really feel her body between all our layers, but I imagine I can, imagine what it would be like to have her skin against my skin. I can smell the eggnog, the maple-bacon donuts from Voodoo, and the freshly baked bread scent that lingers on her clothes. She looks like she should smell like pine trees and campfire, like the wild and untamed parts of the Pacific Northwest. Rainwater and damp soil and moss.

But actually, she smells like bread. Like warmth. Like something that would fill you up.