17 Oct

A cold southerly blew, it would seem, straight from Antarctica. Just days earlier people were enjoying barbecues, the beach, and other sun-related activities. This morning the same folks were wrapped in scarves and hats and long coats--anything to protect them from that piercing gale. It arrived with a storm the night before, forced commuters into their winter gear, and waned by lunchtime leaving the sky cloudless; the sun baking Capitol City.

Jamie's desk sat next to a north-facing window, the afternoon heat accelerating his drowsiness as he intermittently lost focus. He looked out and up into the blue sky, then back down into the corner and at his heavy, hooded black coat that hung on the clothes tree. It made him hot just seeing it. Although he was still wearing a knitted sweater over his shirt and tie, he hesitated to remove it. He'd chosen to wear a particular shirt because it went with a particular tie, and with the v-neck jumper over it, the ensemble was just cracking good. However, another reason he'd chosen the shirt he did was because it could only be worn underneath a sweater. Months ago he'd ripped the pocket, and it folded over like a dog-eared page. "I can't walk around with a ripped up shirt--I'll look like a hobo," he mumbled to himself as the urge to remove the sweater nagged at him and at almost the same time he sat bolt upright and looked around.

"Who said that? Was that me?" The sound of the voice was close enough that it could have been him, but the words didn't seem to Jamie like anything that would come out of his mouth. It sounded more like something his dad would have said scolding him for dressing in ripped jeans and dirty flannels during the early 90s (his father would tell him he looked grungy; Jamie would reply, "Thank you--that's the point").

Jamie quickly wriggled out of the sweater and tossed it by his desk. He wasn't going to be scolded by his own self. But as soon as he'd taken it off, he heard the words he was so painfully trying to avoid.

"Hey, you know your shirt's ripped?"

"Yes. Yes I do. Thank you." He replied, tight-lipped. He loathed being told something he already knew, especially when it involved a flaw or a problem he was working on. Moments later he will think of a slew of witty responses. But for now, he was happy just to be comfortable.

The day passed at the pace of the passing clouds. The usually purpose-driven crowds that pushed like cells through the city's arteries slowed with the easing weather. A construction crew repairing a footpath took a longer smoke break. Cafe chairs tilted back with patrons easing into the better weather. Two university students sipped an early handle of pilsner and talked about the day.

"I love that smell--the fresh, after-storm scent and the sea and the . . . I don't know, it's all mixed in. I can't describe it without resorting to metaphor."

"I know what you mean," the other replied, "it's a high-pitched scent."

"A high-pitched scent. Yes. Exactly."

The harbor's surface, disturbed only by passing ferries, shimmered, reflecting the sky as well as the city's lightness.