We went to Seattle in winter–when it was damp, grey, foggy, chilly and at its most Seattle-est. We broke up. I spent my days in a series of hotel meeting rooms; they spent them exploring. When I was finally turned loose and walked the market with them, merchants waved hello to them and knew their names. We felt wooly and plaid, understood grunge, couldn’t survive without steaming cups of coffee and brown bags of freshly made little donuts. We wouldn’t leave the library. We loved walking the city and discovering fun and funkiness around each corner–like the goth couple getting married at the Public Market or the Hammering Man, a mirror of one back in our then-hometown. On the way back, we took a redeye and ate a real, hearty breakfast in the Detroit airport–another winter city. The metallic grey blue-black of the season felt so much like home; fit like a worn in cardi. We should have known it was an omen of things to come.