029. John in winter

John drank his coffee on the balcony. It was Sunday morning, chilly and as heat rose from his mug it mixed with the white cloud that escaped his mouth whenever he exhaled. The cold brought colour to his cheeks but if it stung he hid his discomfort well.

John didn't mind the winter. It roused him in the morning and kept him sharp. There was a masculinity to it, something primal. Like spicy food or a very smoky Scotch. Winter meant heavy jackets and not slipping. Months of pitch black darkness that tried your creativity and drained your energy. Harsh and unforgiving. A season to endure and survive. John thrived.

Also, he liked the crunchy sound of new snow beneath his heavy booths.

Crunch-crunch.

On one of the apartment buildings across from John a man was clearing snow of the rooftops. A middle-aged lady on ground level served as look-out. Whenever she whistled the man would stop his shovelling and wait for someone below to pass safely by.

John stared at the man. He didn't look like an expert. He had a short shovel and had to lean forward way too long. The rope he was attached to seemed like a regular rope. A rope you'd use to secure a small boat to a pier. Not for men on roofs fifteen metres from the ground. John wasn't an expert either but he thought you'd at least want something that could stretch a little. If the man fell that rope might break his spine.

John sipped the last of his coffee, still hot in the travel mug, swallowed and then filled his lunges with a deep breath of winter air. He exhaled as if it was cigarette-smoke.

The sun lay against the snow and it was bright enough for sunglasses.