Sunday shorts: Weathering

November.

The sun’s rays come through the window and warm up the bedroom. Suddenly, the wool blanket feels more like an overbearing granny, overheating the area and fussing with excessive superfluity. The tree branches outside are static, reassuring me that the winds are absent and shan’t yet deliver their winter slaps. The sky is clear, powder blue even, and void of the menacing clouds that carry heavy rains or snow. It’s too early, I tell myself without a smidge of delusion.

I coax Henry out of his comfy space and watch as he reluctantly stretches across the rug and sits sphinx-like, deciding if I’ve finally lost my mind or whether the treat by the door is worth the effort.

We step outside with big plans for a respectable outing. By the end of my street, it becomes apparent to both of us that, once more, we’ve been thoroughly deceived. Henry charges onward in his toasty double coat anyway, and I begrudgingly walk behind him, ill-attired, into the quiet cold that bites my ears and pinches my cheeks, all of them. The bone-permeating chill is the hors-d’oeuvres served before the main event, for minutes later, the powder blue sky is swapped with a cubicle grey. I walk on as the snowflakes descend onto the green grass covering the almost-bare branches, land on the tops of the shrubbery alongside the path and between my curls, and decorate Henry’s and my noses.

November has lied to us again.