Last night I was walking home from a rehearsal, and freezing my face off. The hair in my mustache was gathering ice from the moisture in my breath, and my lungs felt like they were going into shock from the contrast of Madi's cozy apartment and singing with friends just minutes before. I wasn't thinking much except, "Must get home...before...death takes me."
It's a strange place to live, this place, Chicago. Just a week or so ago, I was wearing a light jacket and enjoying the brisk air on a long walk. Now I'd sell my grandmother for some longjohns. But here's the thing. When you're faced with this kind of cold, you tend to come home happy. Or at least I do. Because when you get home there's a cat there, or a blanket with a book, or sometimes there's a woman there and she is a fan of the hot drink. That is why winter is really great.
...
And the cat. When she's not scratching the hell out of my ankle in the morning as I'm trying to tie my shoes.
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