Christmas in the District

She is young, and he is too.  They're sitting on a park bench along side the river, and they're holding hands.  A bird hops close enough to eye her shoelace suspiciously, and she stares back with equal curiosity.  He turns away from her and spits words into the wind.  They snap across the thick autumn wind.
"You're not as young as you used to be, anyway." 
His eyes are roving a group of coeds, squealing on a blanket nearby, fingers frantically texting on sleek bejeweled phones. 
She does not reply, but looks down at her bare knees.  Blue veins pop out and up, distorting the milky skin.  Her hands fold themselves quickly on top of her legs, and she leans out to look at the rippling water.
"I'm not old yet;" it slips out of her mouth as a whisper but he is too intent on a bronze haired lass to notice her slight decent.

The next week it starts snowing.  Just little flurries of flakes drifting from the sky; enough to excite children who are playing with their nannies on the browning lawn.  They're back on their bench, his hands stuck into his jeans and her nose reddening in the frosty air. 
"I don't know why the hell you dragged me out here today.  It's god damned near freezing."
"We used to come to the river all the time in winter, you remember watching the ice break the spring before last."
"Yeah well, maybe one of us has lost a little of their extra blubber."
He eyes her waist, which grows under his stare.  Her jacket puffs out and she looks away, trying to conceal her embarrassment.  There are no young ladies to hold his attention this time, and so he stands and waits for her to do the same.  Her reluctance makes him impatiently scuff his feet.
"You used to tell me I was pretty all the time."
"You were."

They don't come back for two months after that.  The holidays are approaching and the park is frequented by a sole chipmunk, foraging candy wrappers and breadcrumbs.  One day an old woman shuffles down the path and carefully lowers herself onto the cold bench.  Her eyes may have been blue once, but now they're clouded over and sit below sagging lids.  Lines map their way across her face and her neck and chin collapse into themselves in folds of flesh.  A rattling sigh escapes her thin lips,  a hand reaches up to brush itself across the white hair. 
"I am ugly.  I am old."
She speaks to no one in particular, but the chipmunk stops it's scurrying momentarily to stare at the stranger.  She is still.

 Morning papers announce the tragedy: a woman, age 23, frozen to death last night by the Potomac.  Survived by her parents and a grieving fiance.  She was so young, so beautiful.