She walked briskly, staying to the most populated paths, checking out people as she passed. A young man rollerbladed around a fountain, heedless of the cold. A father told two kids in puffy coats that it was time to go home. Jules overheard three women planning to go for a drink. Everyone seemed to be in motion with not a second to hold still.

Except two people on a bench. As she approached, Jules saw they were middle-aged women who were holding hands. Clearly a couple.

The warmth in her cheeks was a welcome relief from the chill. She tried not to stare—rude and uncool—but for some reason, she couldn’t help it.

One of them was a stocky woman with short hair wearing a leather bomber jacket covered with patches for different bands. Her partner wore the brightest pink lipstick Jules had ever seen. Their smiles to each other were unforced, their intimacy easy and familiar.

Jules’s chest ached. What would it be like to sit next to Vivian on a park bench, holding her hand and talking about something that made them both smile?

Not in this life.

She couldn’t help it. They were pulling her toward them, but she couldn’t be that weirdo who approached strangers out of nowhere. Feeling absurd, Jules wandered closer to them, pretending to look at the East River.

“We’ve got to get out of town for a while,” the femme woman—Jules dubbed her Pink Lipstick—was saying. “You promised.”

“I know,” Bomber Jacket replied, “but if you want to take your road trip, January isn’t the time.”

“I don’t think I can wait much longer. My job’s going to make me lose it.”

“You said you wanted to see Montana. It’ll be even colder there!”

Jules smiled. They were bickering, but there was no real anger in it. It was how you argued with someone you knew well, cared for, enjoyed having in your life.

Must be nice.

Unable to help it, she turned and looked at them again. What a striking picture. Enough to start wheels turning in her head.

Leather bomber jacket…pinkest lipstick I ever saw…two women who love each other…

“Fashion is about two things,” Vivian murmured in Jules’s memory. “Expression and context.”

Jules’s eyes widened. There it was. Her topic.

The butch woman glanced over and saw Jules looking. The lively smile on her face vanished. Her partner followed her gaze.

“See something you like?” Pink Lipstick asked.

Dammit. Caught. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I was just…just…” She looked at their hands, still entwined, and something in her said: “Tell them.”

Okay. Why not? What did she have to lose?

“I’m a writer,” she said. “I write about fashion. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you two are such a striking picture—your styles look amazing together.”