Walking on a Snowy Day

I like to walk alone, especially in weather that most people consider bad, because I enjoy the solitude of my own, private thoughts. As I walk through the streets of downtown Denver, partly walking for the hell of it, and partly for the purpose of buying batteries and coffee, it’s barely drizzling, a faint spray of leftover rain spattering across my face, and I’m in no hurry. Batteries are essential. Coffee is not. But I like to have a hot drink on a crisp day. And no day has ever been crisper than this one: the sky is gray and overcast, the way I like it best, and there are deep, shivering puddles created from the driving rain that came earlier. It’s a good day for smoking, I think, but I refrain because I’ve been smoking too much lately.
All around me the buildings tower, like great, metallic trees, and I feel that I’m lost in a concrete jungle. There is such singularity in walking by myself through the city streets, a poetry to being among so many people, and yet utterly alone. In a way, I prefer that loneliness to the laughter and companionship of others, and I often wonder if there’s something missing inside me—whatever it is that drives human beings to seek one another out.
I know there’s not, and yet, just the same, today, with the cold rain on my face, and the chill air in my lungs, I feel strong and alive, and I’m glad that I’m alone. I’m glad there’s no one to complain about the weather and the city I love so much. Glad there’s no overprotective man to put his arm around me in a futile attempt to keep me warm. I feel braver than the ones who duck inside from the rain, stronger than those holding umbrellas above their dry heads. In truth, I’m likely lacking some mandatory form of common sense—sense to come in out of the rain. I’ve gotten along find without it for twenty years, and I don’t need it now.
I keep walking, pulling my boyfriend’s hat down over my eyes and crossing streets at my leisure. There are puddles everywhere—some shallow, some deep. I like to walk through them, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the child in me that’s not died yet, or perhaps it has more to do with my unexplainable to desire to ignore what other people consider proper, and to go against any grain I find. To buck authority and popular trends. Not that hopping over puddles is a trend.
It’s not quite raining when I reach Walgreens, and my hair’s not even damp. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Still, I came for batteries, so I go inside from the weather and spend thirty minutes talking myself in and out of buying things, until I make my final selections—two packs of batteries on sale for a good price, and a Ben Stiller movie—and step into the line. I toy with the idea of buying a cigarette lighter, but I just bought one I like last night and don’t need another.
The weather has not changed much when I leave Walgreens, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps the weathermen were wrong about the snow that’s supposed to hit. Unless it cools off, the rain will likely just die, and tomorrow the sun will shine.
And now it’s time for coffee. Coffee is something I’m not addicted to, yet, and like cigarettes, I try to only have it on special occasions: days like this are perfect. I think about where I want to buy it as I walk. Initially I was thinking I’d buy it at the new café down the street, just to spite Starbucks, but I spent more money that I meant to in Walgreens, so I opt for 711 instead, make a quick U-turn to go back a block.
711 turns out to be a bit disappointing. They don’t have the creamer I like, and I’m hungry, so I spend nearly fifteen minutes reminding myself that I shouldn’t waste money on food. Though, at home Vicki hasn’t been making dinner lately; that annoys me, and part of me feels that if I buy my own food it will be a mild retaliation. At last I overcome my urge to spend money frivolously and escape with naught but the coffee.
Outside, the storm has picked up. What falls from the sky is not quite rain, but neither is it snow. I’d call it sleet, except that it’s characterized by tiny ice crystals, a bit like hail. It’s not accumulating yet, and maybe it won’t, but as I walk it coats my shoulders and the front of my hoodie, likely my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat as well. Still, I’m in no hurry. The coffee is warm for now, and I walk with my eyes fixed on the sky where the snow is driving down from. I assume the people I pass think I’m an air-headed kid for keeping my eyes always above me, but then I correct myself, doubting that I’m that remarkable. In fact, most of them likely pass me without noticing I exist. That’s how the city is. That’s how humanity is. We are all faceless strangers to one another.
I breathe deeply. I can see my breath steaming before my face, and I like that. The weather has picked up, so there are very few people out now. I like that as well. I pass a man who’s smoking and I can smell the tobacco: it makes me want a cigarette as well, and I almost reach for one before I stop myself. Not today.
My hair is getting wet now. I have a hood, but I’m not wearing it, and I’m not wearing it on purpose. If I wanted to wear it I would put it up, but I like the feel of the sleet on my neck. The coffee’s getting cold as well, rather quickly. Snow drops hit the lid and melt immediately, covering my cup with dew so that when I lift it to take a drink the drops run down onto my face and off my chin.
It’s a marvelous day for walking—other people are cramming themselves onto the bus or hiding under shop awnings, but I like the walk. I like the chill in the air and the sleet falling from the sky. However, when I pass Barnes and Noble, and think about the smell of books inside, and the warmth of the café, I almost go inside, I must admit. There’s no time for that, I tell myself. I’m due back at the school by six, and it’s five now. I wouldn’t want to make him wait.
After all, I’m already taking my time, walking slowly, sloshing through puddles and waiting for the lights to change. I like to hesitate by the alleys and look down them and think about how much I love the city. I like walking.
Now my coffee is very cold, no longer keeping my hands warm, so I finish it quickly, dumping what little is left in my mouth. Drops run down my face, but I don’t know if it’s the snow or coffee dripping from the lid. I wipe it away. The sleeve of my hoodie is soaked and does me little good. By this time I probably look miserable, but I’m feeling fine. I’m thinking rainy days are so much more interesting than sunny ones, good not only for walking, but also for holing up somewhere to write or read or watch a movie. Even if the power goes out this is perfect weather for just lying in bed and listening to music.
It’s coming down harder than ever, and I’m passing the bus station on Colfax where I can smell reefer. I know that people like to sell weed there, because I’ve stood there before, debating whether or not to get on the bus, and if so, which bus to take. It makes me want to smoke even more, and I wonder if I could even get my cigarette to light in this wind. It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to smoke today.
I see a man and a woman together and I wonder what it’s like to be in love with someone. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it, and if I like it. Before I’ve feared that I’m not fit to be loved, and that I’m not capable of love, but I’m not sure why. I fear the coldness inside me more than I fear anything else, and at the same time, I’m not sure how real it is.
By the time I cross thirteenth, the snow is beginning to accumulate on the sidewalks, and I’m ready to dry off. I hope vaguely that my brother and sister might have come up from the Springs to visit, but I don’t expect it. Chances are, the weather stopped them, even if they meant to come. I miss them very much.
I must be capable of love—why should I be exempt from that emotion when everyone else can feel it? And I do love my brother and sister.
There’s no waiting for lights now: I make my way concisely back to school. I’m convinced now that my siblings are at home waiting for me, though I hardly know why, and I don’t want to keep them waiting. We have to spend as much time together as we can, while we still have the chance.
Back at school, I dispose of my empty coffee cup and go inside. In the bathroom, I dry off as best as I could—I shake the water out of my hair and brush the snow from my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat. I slide that into the backpack at last. It will be safer there. I feel the need to keep it safe because it’s not mine. It’s his.
I wonder why I always hope people will give things to me freely when I know very well that that’s not the way this world works. I don’t need another hat. I’m not even sure why I have it—I just know he put it on my head one sunny day just before I was climbing into the Jeep, and he’s never accepted it back; I’ve tried to return it. It’s not that I don’t want it. I simply don’t understand why he thinks I should have it. I suppose girlfriends wear their boyfriends’ clothing. I suppose that’s why he thinks I should have it.
There’s no hope of drying off here, but I take my pills and slide my hoodie back on, secure my phone and MP3 player. When I get home it will be nice to take a hot shower. I don’t dare to hope for hot food though. That seems to be too much to ask for these days, though I have no idea why.
Everything is in place now. The hat is safe, the coffee is gone, and the snow outside is heavier than ever.
The weathermen were right.