Inhale: Nostalgia

New York's been feeling that "seasonably" chilly weather lately. I busted out the wool winter peacoat (which, by the way, just will not do when winter actually comes around), and huddled against the brisk (with a very hard "k") air on my way to the train station. Happy late fall, everyone.

I smiled to myself when a memory of my best friend suddenly flashed into my thoughts. It was during the most furious fury of winter last year, and we had both arrived to work at the same time. We acknowledged each other with glances behind our scarves, leaned against the elevator walls. Our hair was mussed, our cheeks bleached by ice, our knuckles taut and windburnt. We stood rigidly beside each other, bodies still braced against the cold. I flapped my arms like an excited wooden soldier.

I studied her silence, which was unusual. Her eyes were wide, her features stunned and soft. We stepped onto our floor and not one word had been spoken between us yet. "You okay?" I finally asked. "You look dazed."

"Huh?" She blinked a few times, and her eyes cleared. It's like she had just realized I was there. "Oh. Yeah, it's that..." She paused. "Every time winter comes around, I'm always so... shocked." She rubbed her hands over her cheeks, her shoulders relaxing into their natural state. "I mean, every time!! My memory can't be that bad, can it? I don't understand -- winter happens every year!" I laughed hard. "Somehow I forget, and I'm always surprised. I don't get it," she murmured to herself while we parted ways.

So true. New Yorkers tend to drop all memory of our turbulent, recurring relationship with abusive, unforgiving Winter once Summer comes around with its gorgeous bare shoulders and greased-up chest. Mmmm. We get all heady and hot and then BLAM! Gone are the grumblings of cracked skin and ice, gone are the mornings spent prying ourselves from the comfort of blankets into the cold tile of a workday, gone are the infinite stretches of darkness where sunlight only happens while we're indoors. Summer's here, and we embrace it with eager, naked, hungry limbs.

Misery? What misery? Today is a brand new day! I am on fire! Look, bitches, cleavage! A NY summer is always an enveloping, sexual, and passionate experience, one that touches upon the possibility of forever, wrapped in sweat and happiness and fun without consequence.

Until, of course, that moment when it packs up all its shit, kisses you on the forehead while you sleep, and leaves.

Oh. Its Tuesday. You wake up shivering, vulnerable, and bewildered.

What just happened? Did we miss the signs? The weathermen warned us for days, spoke of this breakup for a full week, but we didn't listen. It's not even in our realm of reality. I mean, what the fuck is 50 degrees? What does that even feel like? What is this "cold" you speak of? We have to underdress to be reminded. Cruel.

Yesterday while getting ready for work, I glanced at my peacoat and laughed. Silly rabbit. It's October. Peacoats are for pussies! Ha, ha, ha. I wore a thick turtleneck under a thin trenchcoat -- as one ply as they come -- and threw on a light fall scarf. Stepped outside with a spring in my step, smiling into the sun.

Five minutes past my house, I was gritting my teeth. That sneaky little bastard named 46 Degrees jumped out from the shadows and raped me as soon as I turned the corner. I shivered all the way to work, shivered all the way to school, sniffled all the way home.

Okay, I got the message. Today I wore my peacoat. (Summer, why did you have to leave me like this?)

All jokes aside, a small part of me likes this weather. It's a liberating kind of crisp. The air is light and clean. You don't get to feel that very often, especially in the dense human and steel thickness of midtown. (PS: Goodbye midtown death trap! T minus 8 days till I leave the company I've been working for for the past three years.) Especially when it's paired with sunlight, I feel like I'm in a balloon.

I missed my connecting train, so I decided to walk the rest of the way to my job. I climbed out the subway and waited in line to ascend the stairs to the sidewalk. To the left and right of me, lighters went off. This, actually, was the whole point of this post.

I, LOVE, the smell of cigarettes and winter. Love. Something about that light air and smoke combined just... reminds me of all the goodness of my past. It reminds me of getaways I never had. Of quiet conversations on cabin porches during twilights in Maine. That never happened, but that's the feeling I get when the smell hits me.

I've only been not smoking for a year now. You've got damn near a decade of memories to battle with. I can't help it. My high school afternoons (and, admittedly, mornings too) were spent with cigarettes and good friends outside. My happiest moments just happened to occur in the cold. While smoking. Don't ask me why.

Look. I'm standing by the warm outdoor vents at Julliard, lightly dressed (real coats were expensive), with my New York Breakfast of Coffee and a Marlboro Light. I'm laughing hard and gesturing wildly. Classes are going on across the street (where my high school was), but I'm completely oblivious to the time. There, I'm reading a book with my back against the wall and my ankles crossed before me, Past Tense sleeping on my lap while it snows heavily around us. I'm absently petting her hair, we are sheltered by the buildings overhead. Or, there we are, having conversations on the Lincoln Center bridge (which has since been demolished), one of us exhaling other memories in frustration or hysterical recap. I think it was the happiness I felt that kept me warm at the time. It seems like winters nowadays are getting colder.

And Paula. Paula, with our early morning rituals and wide smiles, though in true Russian fashion, she always seemed to be frowning or deep in thought. Paula, with our Washington Heights rooftops and lead pencil drawings, sarcastic conversations held in completely serious tones. Central Park adventures: our blurry snow angels and delapidated snowmen at the first fall of white sprinkles, slapping snowballs onto each others chests to wish holiday cheer and firm tits upon each others souls. Making friends with local street musicians: Trick with the cowboy hat, and the bass player with the dreads, and that one night with the jazz guitarist (or was it the saxophone?) and some of their groupies too; Dro and Tuni and that woman with the orange hair and dark eyebrows that sold paintings a few feet away. She snuck liquor into her coffee cup. Clasping hands to hearts as songs were dedicated to us, while we linked elbows and staggered in laughter. Paula, who was always defined by her cigarettes, her coyness, and her piercing blue eyes. I miss her when I feel this weather, miss her most when the smoke tickles my nostrils slyly. She was always cigarettes and clean, crisp air. For some reason, things were just more romantic with her. I wonder what she's doing now.