The day was silver like a nickel. Slivers of an indifferent winter rippled across puddles on East 4th Street. My dreams lately have been especially vivid, the air silent, thick and heavy. But I locked my fingers around the neck of that old familiar melancholy and pulled him up out of my belly. Because today is February 16. The city is silver like a nickel. I am jumping puddles at 9:07 on a Tuesday morning. There are beautiful people sipping coffee at the café on the corner, gazing out the window, thinking maybe like me that the air feels ticklish. The worst parts of my dreams weren’t real; everything is okay.