The cool breeze

The cool breeze blows on him, too. That writer you love - that whatshisname - he walks down a street similar to yours, the cool breeze chilling him, freezing his lungs, his breath. The cold tightens his aging hands, those same hands which type those words, those beautiful words - those words which you love. He's muttering to himself, firming up a new dialogue. The words hang in the air, frozen, each a perfect cloud of vapour.

He tucks his chin into his scarf, much like you do, pulls his hat down over his ears, and tightens his coat around his frail failing body. He fantasises of Tuscan beaches, of lying in the sand, of too blue skies and emerald waters. He's struggling to keep afloat in the deep end of a Canadian winter.

Stopping by his favourite pub, the writer - whom you love so much - orders up a pint of beer and some inspiration for lunch. He tips the familiar waitress, raises that pint to his lips, and looks out the window, watching the wind carry huge snowflakes by. The very same snowflakes you watched whip by your apartment window just moments earlier.

Ah, beautiful melancholy - not to be experienced alone. Yes, the cool breeze blows on him, too. That writer you love - that whatshisname.