A cold snap this morning. I woke up, deliciously warm beneath my covers, the kind of warmth one associates with baking bread, and realized that coldness was uncoiling from my closed window into my room. Have you ever looked into a glass of iced vodka and seen barely visible whorls of cold unfurling like crystalline smoke rings? Invisible bands of such were radiating in from my window, and it took true willpower to pull aside my covers, to allow the ephemeral pockets of warmth beneath get frozen as if by Medusa’s glare.

The toilet seat was freezing. My breath plumed out before me as I strode towards the subway stop, hands buried in my pockets, chin tucked to my chest, wearing a shirt, a long sleeved shirt, a sweater and a coat. People were sporting scarves, woolen hats, boots and serious coats. A cold snap this morning, a messenger sent from General Winter’s advancing front lines, not yet visible but coming, ever approaching, driving golden afternoons and lazy mornings before them.