9
This morning, I woke up cold. Around five-thirty, that icy bite underscoring the wind finally bit down fully on the weather, and it's been raining ever since.
I woke up cold. Toes a little numb, wishing I'd slept with a shirt on, shivering like a wet cat. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a too-big, thick wool sweater---one of my father's old ones; it smells like must and a touch of mothballs---and got out some Gabriel José García Márquez to read, and promptly fell back to sleep on the floor.
The sound of rain is extremely relaxing, and the cold is only an excuse to get closer to others.
I woke up cold. Toes a little numb, wishing I'd slept with a shirt on, shivering like a wet cat. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a too-big, thick wool sweater---one of my father's old ones; it smells like must and a touch of mothballs---and got out some Gabriel José García Márquez to read, and promptly fell back to sleep on the floor.
The sound of rain is extremely relaxing, and the cold is only an excuse to get closer to others.