Two steps out of the door, and the humidity hits me. The first to absorb its malevolence was my hair—typical. I wanted to run inside, shower again, and come out with an air-conditioned HAZMAT suit.
“You asked for rain,” I said, with a grimace to my roommate.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, the guilt suffocating her.
Across seas, men and women are reveling in the colder weather; I long to feel the appropriately-placed chill. I want nothing more than to see my breath reflected in the crisp air, to bundle in a warm jacket, to have a reason to drink hot cocoa—with marshmallows, always with marshmallows. I miss the long days of winter.
I want to feel the depth of cold trickle down my spine, the cold air clear my sinuses, and the warmth of a fireplace. Yet, with the season drawing closer, winter is just a pipe dream the longer I remain here.