It's not that I resort to unprofessional tones when it's only nine degrees outside. Really. It's only nine degrees outside and I feel the dread hand of a ghost brush along my back in the quiet of the bookstore. The cold slips under the backdoor, or from the basement, or is wheezed through a window gap.
I did not just use a word that rhymes with truck as I felt the chillmonster grasp the wedge of skin exposed from my sweater's lazy rumple. Yesterday I had a fruit salad for breakfast (not made by me, what luxury on a weekday!) and the chunk of real peach I bit into sent a spineshiver tone of summer through my body. Lawnchairs, sun on skin, dirty feet -- the parade that marches out slush and stagnacy. I'm ready.