The temperatures plummet. We sit in the apartment with all the radiators open to no avail: the steam doesn't come on. I shiver down to my wool socks and hooded sweaters. There is still a great space where the window doesn't fully close around the A/C unit. She writes to say the door blew off the restaurant. It is winter.
It occurs to me some days that this life is more questions than answers. That I can look into the eyes of these people I call home, and be more lost than ever. That in the safe arms of their warm laughter I can shiver worse than in the November winds. It was so cold walking home last night I thought I might not make it at all. These things happen.
Today was just as cold. But I had only myself to talk to about it, and I wasn't much paying attention.
That seemed easier.
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