Drawing arms

The dusting of night snow on the platform flares fickle orange. They look out at the weather and each other through the window. They are strangers. Separated by a table and thirty odd years of other people’s lives. She blushes, puts her hand to her neck. He stares on, draws a smiley face in the steamy glass. She adds hair. He provides the body. She traces two legs. The arms are never drawn.