Trashlight Press:

Genevieve slid her skis, one after the other, over the untouched snow, staring at the limp bundle of hair protruding from Marcel’s beanie like the damp tail of an elderly marmot. Only a sliver of orange on the horizon remained of this miserable day. Genevieve vowed to finally tell him how much she hated that ponytail as soon as they were safe and warm. They drew closer to the little cabin on the horizon, its cheerful plume of smoke an oasis in the never-ending white. A figure in a checked flannel coat and patchwork skirt swept snow from the porch, her long grey hair twisted into an intricate knot on the top of her head.