October, Breathless

Last week, it was cold outside. Late October had already snuck up on the romance of spring, and without the incubation of summer, it froze, inert in the atmosphere. Spring always hangs heavy in the cold autumn air, just as any vaporous words hang steamy and evident to all who can see. Walking outside, I had rosy cheeks and when coming inside, I entered breathless from sudden warmth. This week was mostly the same. Mostly. Except for yesterday.

Yesterday, I was walking outside with him and I made the comment that it felt like spring again. It did. Except, he said, except everything is ten times more pretty, late on an autumn afternoon. This was also true. And a moment later, when I made the absent-minded mistake of stepping on his foot as we walked to my car, it was shrugged off to the more pretty weather.

Later, as I turned my head from the unmoving pavement to say a see you later to him, I was hit in the right eye with the orange brightness of the five o’clock sun. Squinting and turning my head away slightly, I could see my half-lighted face reflected in his pupil. I looked at my tiny half-face for a moment before returning to look at his, which was whole. He told me he was tired and then he told me he didn’t want to go. I told him I was tired too, and then we studied each other for what seemed like more than a moment, the sun still blinding me through the red and skeleton trees.

Smiling wearily, he kissed the palm of his hand and held it out. I kissed my own and met his. We nodded as if agreeing on something unspoken and he opened the passenger door.

“I guess I’m going to go now,” There was no chill in the air to materialize the words or freeze the moment real, so it all seemed to drift through me. Unable to hold it in my head or my hands, it became whispy like a thought. Or a dream.

Today, the air was cold again, heavy with frozen spring.