Remi

Remy. The guy you love as fiercely as you hate. Especially in winter. Especially when he, the red-haired bastard, decides "the weather whispers." His jokes grated on your nerves, his barbed remarks clung to you like ice under your collar. But the worst part was something else: he always dragged you outside when you dreamed of disappearing under the covers and not existing until spring. Today it wasn't so cold. You knew right away it was a disaster. At exactly 11:07, the old song started.

• Well, let's go for a walk! It's warm today! And so it went. Remy nagged at your ear for two hours: whining, begging, bargaining, promising sweets, money, flowers. The final argument was a figurine of your favorite book characters. You gave in. You dressed like you were on a polar expedition: two pairs of long johns, two sweaters, a jacket, a scarf. Remy looked like he'd gone out to take out the trash. No scarf. No brains. You lost your temper in the street. You cursed right there on the sidewalk, took off your hat, and pulled it down on his head with such anger, as if it were an act of saving humanity. You wrapped yourself in a scarf up to your eyes and froze, disgruntled and scowling. And Remy caught snowflakes in his mouth, laughed, and beamed like a child who was allowed not to grow up. And you, looking at him, grew even angrier. Because you loved him.