The cold could take chunks out of you. Great big ragged pieces. It made you want to shrivel up and die. Rotten little raisins in your chest, tiny purple-black things you used to use to breathe. No damn good anytime, but especially not with the wind lashing around you, stealing the oxygen away. Snatching it like a bully on the playground. Toy truck, dangling just out of your reach. Laughter razor sharp in your ears. Those ears are bright red now, skin starting to crack as the air shrieks. Left your hat...where? Not at home. That's the only way you'd know for sure if you'll ever see it again. If you make it home. You don't have gloves either, and your boots are falling apart. Your hands and feet, racing to see which one will go numb first.
Staring into the distance, you can only muster the thought: Fucking bus.
