The lilac ruffles stretch across my eyes, illuminating the dimly lit room with strokes of tulle and mesh. The tacky garment puffs out at awkward angles, its purple layers bouncing as the body they frame contorts seamlessly into a dance. Elongated fingers point at the ceiling, the shoddy fabric of the dress grasping at the spaces in between them. The lights that surround the walls are low, but all are centered on my best friend.

The artificial luminosity cascades on her pale complexion, gleaming against her groomed onyx brows, glossy against the reflected shine. Sweat clings to the makeup that accents her round cheeks, two curves sharpened by the contrast between depth and highlight. Thick lips, two strawberry-red pillows, frame the radiating pearls in her mouth. A smile extends across her face. Pungent perfume curls to my nose, tickling every nerve in my head. The wood floor creaks and trembles as music knocks against its surface. The girl, whose dress offends my sight, her long cinnamon hair swirling in delight, celebrates her day with my surprising presence.

The rest of the night passes in a blur; she greets every guest in a hurry (including me), and only has a few minutes to take one or two pictures. Ours has a shaking finger, pink and engraved, on the edge of the picture, our faces washed out in a sea of others. She takes an extra second to dance to explosive synchronized beats and hollers at my sudden loose movements. Despite the wave of plastic fakeness that shrouds the air, nothing but raw gaiety erupts in our minds.

The next day comes fast, as do the flakes that melt on my fiery red cheeks like delicate lace. Snow crunches under thick-soled boots. A bell chimes and a gust of warmth wraps my elegant white coat as I step into the café. The smell of coffee is strong.

We talk for hours, rambunctious laughter bouncing in the corners of the quiet room. I observe her hooked nose, a distinctive feature. We share a vegan cupcake. Crumbs outlines her peach lips, occasionally clinging to her shiny hair. Chocolate explodes in my mouth. Between us is a foot-tall cup, steaming with strong Lebanese coffee. The vibrant drink trickles our throats, the essence seeping into our pores. Behind her, Marcello and Sophia grin at my friend’s barely showing neck. My body is racked with warmth that melts the precipitation outside. It’s a sight we both adore.

At night, our legs dangle off the front porch. The door to her house is slightly open, and we can hear music inside. Metal scratches against the grooves of a shiny black record collected from a thrift shop that smelled of cheap fragrances and illicit substances. Her collection is small, but every artist is incredible. Today is Amy Winehouse.

Coffee splashes on the snow, forming onyx holes. Specks of stars reflect off our feet, bruised blue from the cool wind. Her toenails bear the chipped remains of a low-rate nail polish, a nasty coral pink. A cement color would have looked better on her.

In the few lonely hours we have together, as the moon embraces the black sea, I get to meet my friend all over again. Our shadows become deeper with each second. My coat becomes heavy and stiff as we talk. The voice that leaves her plump lips is low but stained with sweetness and affection.

She tells me of Tanzania, the way her hands grew callouses from the labor, how the kids warmed up to her, a tribute to her unique spirit. The hoop on her nose is dull, sterling silver stained from years of wear. Her hands leaf through curved pages of her copy of the The Bell Jar, buckled from the never-ending snow. She has highlighted passages with fluorescent fuchsia. It is not unexpected when puddles begin to gather at the corners of her wide eyes, the long curves of her eyelashes casting shadows. Tears form constellations on the apples of her cheeks, a map of the excitement of finally getting to see me. I react the same.

This is my best friend, who treats me with the utmost care. She spends endless nights with me, no matter how far apart we are. Her eyes twinkle with the thought of Marcello Mastroianni and the black-and-white bustle of Italy. Chestnut hair always wraps around her sweet face, braids intertwining. We go to Ben and Jerry’s together, watch golden-skinned boys walk past, we discuss Maduro’s dictatorship and the extensive grocery lines that result. We always listen to an emotional record when we’re together.

And it’s now, as the sun begins to peek past the blankets of snow and the sky explodes in a symphony of tangerine and baby blue, that I face getting on a plane and leaving this bliss for months. As I gather my things, the rough voice of Amy Winehouse croons behind my back, beckoning me not to leave. I howl in desperation too.