Freeze

The temperature plummets, little flurries of snow surprising themselves into existence along the river and your extremities numb. The season of long, steaming showers out of which it is near impossible to step. You arrive at the bar early but your table in the corner is taken, the one with perfect lighting and rickety legs; you nestle into a back nook with orange string lights. For the first time, the Tuesday bartender knows your order, too, and you wonder if this means you have officially moved in. Don't be precious, the note reads, and what it means is don't be particular, but you have turned out to be the sort of writer who thrives on superstition, who craves the known to paint the unknown, you return to this bar because you don't know how not to.

I return to a lot of things in life, circle back and try them on for size, make sure everything still fits. Sometimes I'll leave sweaters lying in a corner of the closet for months when they don't, trying to alter myselt to make them make sense again, but I see now the error of my ways. I'm not the one meant to be changing.

If this sweater doesn't fit anymore, I am ready to leave it behind. The winter is too long, too cold, to go without what keeps you warm.