Cold

It is the kind of cold that finds its way in and around every bit of protection you have, seeps through your skin, dives down your throat and strangles you. The wind crashes like a blunt wave, always breaking. The sky is neutral, neither gray nor blue, unwilling to express an opinion on all of this.

But it is cold. It is cold and people say so. They say so in every way, with whatever inflection their frozen lips can manage, and whatever verbiage their addled mind can generate. Often they settle for "It's cold." They add expletives for effect, when nothing else will do.

I nod, say that I know, don't say that this is the same thing I've heard all day, or that I haven't been outside in eight hours. I say that it is what it is and that it's January, so it's whatever. They agree because there is really nothing else to be done.

We dispense with the formalities and they order the coffee; I make it. They touch the cup and close their eyes and smile. They take pictures of the latte art, tell me what social networks and photo sharing services they're going to post to. I smile. I warm them and they warm me and it all feels balanced, it all feels good.