Time spent on the bus is measured by the number of times the little window I make in the frost on the glass freezes over. This morning, I was admiring the beautiful white trees, the sun shining through their branches, the sparkling snow; there was a smile on my face all the way down to school. Tonight, as people shove and push me on the bus, I feel angry.
A friend of mine is back after six months’ absence. The conversation seems frozen as well: Alright there? – Alright. You keeping warm? – Sure. Meet tomorrow? – Yeah. Around noon? – Good. Text you tomorrow then. – OK. Mind, the other conversations I had today all featured woolen underwear and/or hot beverages as a necessary tool for survival.
I bow my head and walk forcefully through the snow, someone detached in my head noting that I probably look like a penguin. By the time I reach the house, my hands are so stiff it takes a while to fumble the door open. I stick them under hot water – the sensation is both pleasant and painful. If frozen food has feelings, I’m pretty sure I now know what it experiences as it thaws.