It’s a slow dispersal, like raindrops down a window pane. Pausing, as if in thought. Joining and branching, then disappearing.
Scattered, like a rain that grows with sleepy reluctance.
Then a rush, the storm that finally thunders its presence. Winds and howls that stop you in your tracks, and clouds that impede your journey.
Every morning, a yawning procession.
Morning thoughts on the bus ride to work.
Thin fingers squeezed together, shaking slightly in the frigid morning air. Her gloves were still buried deep within the closet, so she had to resort to tucking her hands within her slightly too-thin sleeves. A shiver ran the length of her body, and she quickened her steps.
Just a little bit further.
Her toes had started protesting the cold from the moment she crawled out from under her covers this morning. Even her thick socks weren’t helping.
Up ahead she saw the inviting yellow of her favourite morning stop. She stuck her hands under her arms, shoulders hunched slightly.
The bell rang as she opened the door. She straightened as warmth and the smell of coffee flitted about her senses.
The door closed, forcing the seeking frost to retreat. It allowed no resistance and closed with a jolly jingle.
Mutinously resistant cold air clung desperately to her back, lurking under her jacket, clawing at her back. She shivered once more, dislodging it.
She accepted her usual with a smile and brief exchange. Then her hands surrounded the cup, and her shoulders relaxed. Her fingers tingled, warming a bit too quickly, and she inhaled the wake up she’d been lacking.
One sip in, one breath out.