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Katherine Barham A Winter Reunion You spoke the words slowly; voice low, slightly guttural: “Your eyes, sometimes, turn watery and dark.” We were huddled over coffees in the booth at the back of a dark cafe, while January’s refusals gathered outside. Instead of answering, “Only when I’m lonely or sad” or “Is loving you a fucking phenomenon?” I thought of San Francisco’s Seal Rock. Last November I scanned the bay for any bobbing, sleek head to emerge or cries from their stony haven. No sign of them. Then, something sudden and black — an arm, perhaps, or tossing, sun-washed head — flashed from a high rock, inviting me, now, to slide from the booth’s slick seat into stupefying cold — and glide beyond confusion, speech.