It was so cold, the words coming out of Albert Gavoora’s mouth froze, ice cubes of various sizes, each cube representing the length of the word. Conversely, on the other side of the world, extreme heat was killing people left and right.
Albert shut the fuck up and pulled the thick red, white and blue knit scarf over his face. This was the first wise thing Albert had done all day. He prevented his exposed nose from the cruelty of frostbite, and possibly nose amputation. A nose should be a nose, and not a flap of skin, like a door to a teepee.
What he tried to say was, “Jesus son of a bitch, it’s colder than two refrigerators fucking full blast. This ain’t global warming. It’s the ding damn opposite for the sake of Christ. It’s as if no one knows up from down in this fucked up fuck world.”
He waddled off, secured in the Midwestern four-layer wardrobe, thermal underwear, sweats, oversized pants and flannel shirt, all contained in a zip-up hooded snowsuit. Even dressed like this, he could feel the Arctic wind blow right through him.
He paused. For the first time in many years, he craved a cigarette. It dawned on him like a spreading stain; loneliness is devastating.