entelein | (no subject)

The weather is bright and thin. Sunny, twenty-five degrees. Apparently it was only fifteen degrees earlier. Even though I was fine on my half-mile walk to the office from the train, didn't even need gloves, I did notice that the medium-knit texture of my hat was a lot more obviously medium-knit: that is to say, the air was sneaking in, infiltrating, lifting heat from my scalp and erasing it. The disappearing ink of breath steaming out from nostrils, the reverse lemon-juice-on-paper-over-candle of touching skin to metal.

Heat is ephemeral in Chicago's landscape today.

But, I have chicken shawarma, and the yellow rice is riddled with cloves, and there is a half moon of pita bread wrapped in wax paper, ready for me to swipe it through the spatula's worth of hummus in one section of my styrofoam-packaged meal.

There is always more hot cocoa.

One makes do, even when one is being chilled so, so thoroughly.