It’s cold. It’s cold, and it’s not the kind of cold you can write a pretty post about, comparing yourself to a pioneer and calling on ancestors. It’s the kind of cold you simply walk through, scarf about your nose and mouth. The snow crunches in an ominous, below-zero way, and you wonder if you’re going to survive this walk, or if they’ll find your frosted remains the next day, still covered with red hat and grey mittens.
You run into Davis and Neil, and it hurts to talk to them. It hurts to remove scarf from face, to form cold words with cold lips, to tease them about walking in such conditions to the Slut Shack (actual house name) for Wasted Wednesdays. When both groups move on, it still hurts so much that you don’t stop to consider, as you otherwise might, why they’re the ones going out, and you’re the one heading in, for tea and for bed. Instead, you think, how ironic, how terribly ironic, that they are leaving the warmth of home for -5 degrees and for alcohol, which is additionally numbing.
The whistle of the 11:00 train darts through the empty air as you near the tracks. You call it an unmentionable name, and mutter through your scarf, “It’d better be a short one.”