It's getting cold, in Seattle.
One of my friends, every time she comes in her apartment, yells, "It's so f***ing cold!" before slamming the door in a fury behind her. She'll then run to get her rice-filled sock, throw it in the microwave, and after a minute, takes it with her to the couch, hunches next to the radiator, and burrows beneath the quilts that are askew on top of the cushions.
"It's so f***ing cold, Rosalie."
I can see my breath when I go outside, without an American Spirit held between my fingers, a a first time occurrence since I've been in the Pacific Northwest.
There is ice on the streets. My friends don't know how to drive, with a one foot patch on the side of the road.
"I don't know how to drive on ice, Rosie! Okay, I'm going around the block. I'll go around the block."
"You can just go a little slow, it will be fine, it's not even black ice."
"Oh no. Oh no. Here it is!"
The Christmas tree on the Space needle (which looks stupid by the way) and my hands, slowly turning pink from the cold, make me homesick for the North Country.
There, even the alleys in Phillips are peaceful after a fresh snowfall. Edith is making truffles and prefernuse and potica at 2504.
I want to have to dry my smart wool socks on the radiator, to have to run to the shower in the morning because the floor is so cold. I want to watch Charlie Brown with my little sister, buried under a pile of blankets, and I want the cuffs of my jeans to be soggy after trudging through snow banks. I want to sit next to Julian and Chantz and Gabby at the Cedar, my coat slipping off the back of the chair like it always does, pierced by the coldness of Channy Moon's voice and the warmth of all the bodies in the room.
I want to go home.
(I hate you, Amtrak).
