You turn and walk through the first set of sliding doors, sidestepping a couple coming in, their shoulders hunched and huddled, ski caps frosted with the snowflakes outside. The wind outside taunts your bravery, bracing whistles rising and falling. The second set of doors opens, and you step into the rushing cold. As you trudge along toward the parking lot, the wind tries to decide what to do, swirling and blasting, tossing the flags outside this way and that, carrying eddies of snow in dancing sheets before you.
You look at the skis atop the car, trying to decide whether to pull them off at all. Still, you'll need the basics, so you undo and lift the hatch, muscling your bags onto the white-covered asphalt, each one settling with a soft, wet compressing sound.
"Hey."
Nearly bumping your head on the top of the hatch, you turn to look. Mittens jammed into a scarlet letterman jacket with tan sleeves and a gray "O" over his heart, he looks at you with toffee colored eyes, chin obscured by a fluttering scarlet and gray scarf.
"My name's Michael. Saw you struggling with the bags. In this weather, we all could use a hand. Need any help?" he says with a twinkle in his eye, looking you over.