There's a threat of snow tonight. It seems fitting; I spent today wrapped in my new coat and big sweater. Fall is here in full force, fading into winter more quickly than I expected.
Tonight, after a meeting, I stopped at the liquor store. I bought a bottle of Shiraz-Cabernet and headed home with Tori Amos on full blast. Weather like this calls for soft piano and warm wine.
I'm sitting at Billy's computer, waiting for him to get home. I'm still in my beige wool turtleneck sweater, not because it's cold in here, but because wearing it reminds me that outside of this burnt orange room, it's autumn. My half-empty glass of red is sitting beside me, next to a burning cigarette, waiting to be consumed and inhaled. Tori is crooning "Baker, Baker," the volume so loud that her smooth voice fills the room, leaving space for little else.
Soon, this house will be filled with sounds of life, but for now it's just me and Tori, nurturing the calm feeling that days like this brings. It's uncharacteristic for me, but I'm enjoying the cold, the need to button my tweed coat against the wind. I've been looking forward to this all day: The half hour or so of time where it's just me and the music. Soon, this house will be filled with sounds of life - The television, the voices of Billy and his cousin and his girlfriend. I'll be forced to turn down Tori, to make conversation, to be personable. But I've spent the last three days talking and listening and being part of one crowd or another. I've been longing for solitude. And Billy. But he belongs to work until well after nine, so I'll wait for him, happy here in the stillness of his absence.
I'm almost looking forward to the snow that we're being warned against. I want a snow day. I want to see town covered in white, desolate except for the brave few who voluntarily venture out of their houses. I want to walk down Harford Street, the snow freezing my feet through my inappropriate stilettos. I want to feel the pang of cold on my face. I want my hat to be caked in snow. I want to hear the hush of tires on an unplowed road, or watch the stoplight in town change silently from green to yellow to red for no one. I want to see the impossibly clear sky that only winter can offer. I want the quiet that only comes with an untimely blizzard - The way town all but shuts down, doors and coats closed to keep the cold out.
But it's quite likely that the snow is a farce, and that only rain will fall from the heavens. Tomorrow morning, I'll be glad it's not snowing, but I'll still curse the weatherman. I'll run to my car, dodging precipitation, the chill traveling through my clothes, into my bones and staying with me all day.
As for now, the CD has moved on to "Precious Things," the piano sharp and sweet. The red wine has taken a hold of my senses, making me feel slow and murky. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but right now, I feel perfect.