Turning the corner, I lean into the sharp chill wind. I remember a winter, years ago, colder than this. I went out every day in shirtsleeves, or at most a light sweater (more to cover my shabbier shirts than for warmth).
I remember the cold sinking into my body as I walked through the icy streets, a chill so bitter I could almost taste it. I savored it like good gin.
I remember the wind on my skin, tearing through my shirt, the feeling that it was peeling my skin back like a paring knife on an apple. I remember how much I wanted to feel that wind, that chill -- and I remember why.
Copyright 1993 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.