A hiss jolts Françoise out of her trance and whirling to its source, she lunges towards the stove to grab the saucepan from the heat. Cursing her distraction she cleans up the mess and makes the hot chocolate. The cold air returns, constricting her muscles and starting a shiver that begins in her stomach and radiates to the tips of her limbs in a rapid wave. She trots briskly back into the living room, mugs in hand. Angelisa's head pops through the top of the sweater just as Françoise arrives and she grins contentedly at the sight of the chocolate. Françoise sets the mugs down on the floor in front of the fire and perches on the edge of the sofa to warm her chilled bones.
      "This reminds me of Paris," bubbles Angelisa finishes a large gulp. She sits down next to Françoise gripping the mug between her palms. Françoise settles back into her seat now that she has lost the cold edge and asks,
      "What were you doing outside in weather like this?"
      "Silly, I know," Angelisa replies, dipping her head in momentary shame. "I'm a photographer and I thought I might get some interesting photos of the snow. It doesn't snow like this in Paris. I didn't imagine the car would get stuck."
      "This is pretty bad even for Moose," says Françoise. "You're lucky you saw the smoke or you'd be frozen in a block of ice right now." "I think so," she agrees with a sense of relief in her voice. She continues the conversation, talking about her photographic adventures around the country and how she settled in Moose a few months prior to explore the beautiful scenery of Wyoming. Françoise listens intently, hearing her accent rise and fall in a curious foreign way. She watches her eyes and mouth as she talks, studies them hard to find the answer to the question that refuses to go away. Where has she seen her before? After a while Angelisa'a words blend together into a single musical tone and Françoise relaxes to their lullaby, sinking into the soft cushions at her back. The voice drifts upwards and halts. A second or two of silence passes and Françoise shakes herself out of her daze.
      "Sorry, what was that?"
      "Were you going to write some poems this evening?" asks Angelisa, motioning to the pen and journal on the floor.
      Françoise takes a moment process the inquiry and then, picking up the journal from the floor, brings it to her chest in a protective stance.
      "I had an idea earlier," she says, confused. "Poetry? How did you know it was a book of poetry?"
      "Just a guess." Says Angelisa before taking another gulp of chocolate. "You know, I saw you many times at the bookstore, looking at the poetry books. You always seemed very - how do you say - engrossed?"
      "Engrossed. Yes" Françoise's emotions dart all over the place. Yes, at the bookstore, she thinks, finally connecting with the face of her guest with a vague memory. On the surface she feels complemented that her interest in poetry has been noted and she is being asked about it. On the other hand there is a suspicion, a nervous apprehension of vulnerability that could ensue from discussing it