Today the snowflakes were the size of apples. (Small apples). I would have liked to pause to look at them from a cafe window. (At that moment what I wouldn't have done for a custard pastry). But I smelled something like slept in stockings, unwashed hair, curry and herbs, and faintly of sour sweat.
So I walked through the flakes, but just barely. They grabbed my coat and stuck to it, and to my face, not really even seeming to melt. I was spotted all down my one side. I met a wall of them, and then a wall of more of them, and these walls tumbled into pieces on the bridge of my glasses and all over my black tights.
I came home and I cooked an egg and a breakfast pita and, with the scent of days old gin lingering in my bedroom air, I read the rest of my novel. And it was so (so so so) lovely.
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