It was the last storm of the winter, midway through March, which heaped five feet of snow onto the city and swathed it in a silence Frank had never before witnessed. There was something miraculous about meeting each other at the empty cinema, which was improbably still open, the two of them sitting alone in the dark, the smell of damp wool and melted butter curling around them. Afterward, they’d walked blindly through swirling white streets, the occasional headlamps of a car crawling past illuminating their path. There were no cabs, so they’d ducked into an Italian bakery on Bleecker Street
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