The light falls early now and it is suddenly cold. I am walking home from work in the dark and going out for long runs under the glow of streetlights. The gray light and short days bring a sort of melancholy, but I will always love the slow walk home, the tip of my nose cold, the stamp of my boots on the sidewalk. The houses all have big windows filled with big lights and shelves of books. There's no window at my house, but the light is just as warm.
The thing about a city that always gnaws at me is how easy it is to become cold. Not physically cold, emotionally cold. It is easy to keep people at a distance. I know there are plenty of small towns deep inside big cities, but also there are so many people around all the time that you can't survive without ignoring a few. I am on the quiet and shy side and tend toward fearfulness, so it's easy for me to be suspicious of the stranger who strikes up a conversation in the grocery line. He asked, Are you a vegetarian? You buy healthy food. I said, No, but my boyfriend is. Then I took a long step forward to end the conversation.
But he crept right up behind me and asked, Which one of you cooks? I answered, We both do. And then he told me how he used to cook when he was young, before he met his wife. I did it out of necessity. You know, I had to eat something. But then he met his wife, who was the best cook he had ever known, and he didn't need to cook anymore. I looked at his groceries spread on the belt: cans of Hormel chili, bottles of Pellegrino, one loaf of white bread. I blinked, I understood, I smiled. He smiled back. I picked up my bag and said, Have a good one, and then I left.
