Running hands over a newly-shaven scalp: the ephemeral plasticine smoothness contrasting with the burn of tiny nicks.
A long gray day of wet snow. Now at night the gutter drips while occasional tires sluice through the streets.
He holds a deep blue hardcover with gold lettering, a treatise on physics. “Beautiful,” we both say. He, of the theorems. I, of the book.
An afternoon spent beneath the cover of the library. Book-dust in my nose, fingers paper-dulled.
The wind moved like the wake of a massive beast through the city all day. Breath was stripped, short passage roughened, humility enforced.
The day is fiercely cold, achingly bright. The moon sits above the trees, slicing a bone-white curve out of the blue afternoon.
Blinds raised, the late afternoon slicing the last golden furrows into the walls–and now they’re gone. The room dims to a plaintive gray.