Spring walks up to the house of 2019 and knocks on the door. A peephole opens and a very inebriated Winter answers, “What’s the password?”
“What?” replies Spring, slightly taken aback
“Nope” bemusement creeping into Winter’s voice.
“What’s going on here, it’s my turn. We’re in Apr”
“Not even close!” interrupts Winter, slapping the hole shut.
Spring is not put off, perturbed “Listen here, It’s my turn. We agreed that you could have a flurry if you won on poker night. Which hasn’t even happened yet!” Spring knocks on the door, harder.
A slightly muffled “I’m not listening” is faintly heard through the door.
“I’ve got stuff to do! Flowers need blooming, animals and insects need feeding! For crying out loud, it’s hardly above freezing at night! Heck, it’s barely in the ’40s now!”
“Wow, you’re talking a lot. You want something to drink?”
“I would love… You know what, no. Where’s 2019?”
“On our fifth bottle *hic* I mean we are.”
Spring proceeds to sit down on the stoop, wishing they’d brought a heavier coat or a second shirt.