I grab the first three shirts I can find and pull them on, one over the other. I wiggle into a pair of black leggings and point my toes into a black pair of socks and then a purple-striped pair. Loose-fitting jeans go on over the leggings, and I find my red, wool sweater with buttons up the neck. I put that on too. Then, the purple, plaid scarf and wool, fleece-lined hat from T's mother. My shearling boots are at the front door, and when I put them on, it feels as if my feet are bundled in their own little twin beds. I find my red, fleece-lined gloves and put those on before the big, marshmallowy down coat. I zip up the coat and snap the snaps up to my mouth so that a bit of scarf still peeks out purple. I pull up the the fuzzy, faux-fur hood and feel like an Inuit imposter. Maybe, just maybe, I'll stay warm on our walk.
Five minutes outside, and I feel the prickly sting of 8 degrees Fahrenheit and a windchill of well-below zero. My thighs are enveloped in icy innertubes, and my fingertips are sore. Strangely, my nose is warm and damp from the heat that stays inside my scarf when I breathe big hot breaths from my mouth. I am not a mouth breather, but right now, it helps. I whine a little. T hears but pretends not to notice.
"Keep your hands in your pockets," he tells me. I try to, but it's too pretty not to take pictures.
At home, a trail of snow follows us through the kitchen, and the studio, and the living room, to the hallway, where we take off our boots. Carefully, we dance around the newly formed snow patches on the carpets and wood floors.
It is now two hours since we've been back, and my feet, in their two pairs of socks, are still a bit frozen blue. Nothing to worry about, but just a reminder that I should enjoy the blanket they're underneath and be nicer to the fat flies that somehow sneak into my apartment in the dead of winter.