The crunch of thinly layered ice over soft, chalky snow. I have to ask myself again why I’ve been standing out here squelching the snow and ice under my feet for the past 30 minutes, if only to help bolster my resolve to keep waiting.
The wind quietly sighs against my cheeks, but in a moment of bipolar terror- screams down the street towards me and rips at my eyelids with its icy teeth. “Whoever placed this lamp pole here was a savior”, I think while trying to squeeze my body behind the foot-wide wind barrier.
A mechanical hum rattles to a stop next to me and I wiggle my fingers towards the smoking exhaust pipe as if to beckon its hot fumes to drift towards me and heat my frozen digits. I have stooped to the point where my wishes are that of a car’s exhaust warming me. This is a new kind of low.
The car clatters away and I half expect the left over wisps of smoke to sublimate to cloudy icicles. My throat complains as I take half of a breath from beneath my cotton mask. The soft material is so tightly woven I can barely get enough air to my lungs. It’s a small price to pay compared to the sharp, cold breath I would take without it.
I blink. Just a quiet street and a flashing light.
Black pavement streaked with brown, compacted ice.
Snow begins to fall again, and still I’m left waiting for the bus.
-HM
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