He came up that Saturday night, even though there were never any city people up when the weather got cold. People only came in the summer, filling the narrow sidewalks with little dogs and carriages, holding hands and smiling knowingly because they had, just for that afternoon escaped. But it was cold and the city people stayed put in the city. I guess he didn’t want to stay put that night. Even city people need to run away. That didn’t mean it made sense to me. It just wasn’t worth running toward.
The season was too long. I had split up too many sets up gloves, lost to the winter like lonely laundromat socks. My hands were dry and my nails were raw. The pockets in my pea coat sagged from constantly jamming in my ball-up fists. I had a nasty habit of picking my cuticles. I swore too much.
We trudged through the frost, the cold ghosts on the street rising up around us.