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Cold Feet
jordyn.myah Released Feb 05, 2012

The tile floor is surprisingly cold against my feet as I walk across the kitchen. I grab a chair as I pass by the table and drag it toward the window. That’s probably not very good for the floor, but that’s what it gets for being so fucking cold. 

Maybe I’ll go put some socks on. Then again, that would require walking all the way back across the kitchen to get to my bedroom. After a moment’s hesitation I decide against it. I sit down in the chair and tuck my feet underneath me.

Outside the snow is falling. It’s heavy enough to stick, but that’s pretty much it. The older stuff on the road has already turned to sludge, its earlier whiteness violated by the dirt and grime left behind by winter-worn tires on winter-worn cars. I dig my toes further into the creases of my sweat pants.

The streetlights begin to come on just then. They blink into existence in a wave up and down the street. Beside the neighbor’s mailbox one of them flickers, as if it can’t quite muster up the energy to remain constant. It’s a good thing mailboxes don’t have epilepsy. Can you imagine that? An epileptic mailbox. It would seize violently, letters frothing from its little door and the flag on the side flailing all over the place. And all the while the streetlight would continue to flicker, either completely oblivious or possibly just sociopathic.

A car drives slowly past, interrupting my train of thought. It passes the flickering streetlight and the decidedly not epileptic mailbox, its taillights blurring behind the falling snow. I wonder who’s driving that car and where they’re going. Do they even know where they’re going? 

Sometimes I contemplate getting into my car and driving to who knows where, but I never do. I never have anywhere to go. But maybe we can only figure out where we’re going once we get there. Now might be a good time to try it, leaving, that is.

Then again, maybe I’ll just go put some socks on.

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