Baby, It's Cold Outside

Sometimes, in the winding-down of a day, the TV babbles and Mack, across the room on the red couch, nods off. On my iPad I search for Coats and Jackets, sorting for serious pieces meant to be worn in serious cold, thick fog, frozen snow, not the pffft unlined stuff in the stores here in barely-chilly SoCal. Silently clicking, I add them to a wish list that grows and shrinks with the seasons, part of my secret wardrobe, what I would wear if I lived where you are. A trim black belted classic trench. Caramel leather jacket, supple, hip length, with a sturdy diagonal moto zip. Glazed Army-green cotton utility jacket lined with soft navy flannel, a fur-lined hood. Yellow slicker. Last, a beautiful thing in dense wool, double-breasted, fitted from shoulders to ribcage, then flared to swing with every step, blue as a midnight sky. I imagine wearing it in on an ice-cold morning, walking quickly to where you are waiting, watching its hem, and me, dance down the hill. I own a real-winter coat (or several - come on, it's me) and I've worn them in real-winter cities in Januarys that snowed and froze and required waterproof boots and scarves pulled up over your ears and nose, though never in your city nor even close. I know my limitations. Wrapped in layers of gabardine and silk, I have stepped, heels banging, on frozen sidewalks, my skin inside my clothing as warm as toast. As warm as I once was in the cocoon of your arms, held tight by your wordless embrace. I can't go far these days, not for long. It's not likely I will get to New York or Chicago this winter in real life to gin up thermal memories. For that I have these imaginary coats in my virtual closet and the fantasies they dress up.