We sat there, toasting each other, half drunk on pino colada's made from fresh coconuts picked from the tree above the bar. Having just met, but insisting that our love purer then the whiteness of the coconut milk, or the snow we had escaped by coming to Cancun. Snow that was falling, closing highways even as I made my way to this paradise. She said she had dreamt of me before she had left the frigid winds of Chicago behind her. And I believed, believed in Allison, in her, her only and her forever. But coconuts fall if not picked and, oftentimes, shatter on the concrete walkways of our lives.