I’m not cold, I have four layers on. But if I sit here too long my fingers freeze tight and my toes get tingly. The clouds smoulder grey above me and like the tip of a cigarette they burn red with the city’s lights.
People walk past me and my wooden bench. Someone in heels and a determined clack to match. Others shuffle together, a bunch from the same family. A couple wander on, her hand caught in his.
My hands are snapped cold now, but I can’t go in just yet.