Faux Leather Jacket

I hate the cold.

The way it comes in so silently, so stealthily, destroying everything with its frigid appearance, leaving nothing. Lives are taken and
beauty is destroyed in the harsh reality of its glacial winter air. Oh, and those funny little scientists, naming my current infliction the
thing I hate the most. I cough. Damned cold.

My eyes glance down the road again, the monotonously straight, unbelievably normal road, but all that?s there is the tire scarred rat,
the one that?s been there for two days now. I look away from it, back down at my coffee cup, which is lending its cinnamon-seasoned
warmth to my unclad hands. I feel the milky-brown liquid slosh about in its recycled Styrofoam confines as I cough again, my
poisoned breath coming out in condensed puffs of air that disappear as soon as they come. When the unwanted spasm ends, I lean
more heavily against the rusted metal pole of the street corner stop sign, the icy cement curb I sit on chilling my flesh through the
layers of cloth, denim, and cotton that are meant to keep me warm. It?s too much cold; I stand up to wait.

A flash of silver catches my eye and I look down the road again to be greeted by the sight of your car. It?s one of those half-electric
ones, the only car that you find acceptable besides a Porsche. My mood brightens slightly as you pull up next to the curb I just
vacated, tossing your guitar in the back seat and even going so far as to reach across the center console and passenger seat to push my
door open for me. My slight smirk of gratitude doesn?t seem to affect you, however, as I climb into the warm metal cage of the
vehicle. I sigh dejectedly, my somber, ill air returned, then close the door so you can drive yet again.

The music your car?s CD player whispers is soft to begin with, none of that head-banging nonsense that you so loathe. But it?s too
quiet, and you?re not providing any form of entertainment; you never have before. I hold my beloved coffee in one hand, waiting for
your slender nod of approval before I reach over and turn the volume of the classical piece up a bit, shivering slightly as I do. You
look at me from the corner of your eye, blinking. What?s going through that longhaired head of yours? I couldn?t know if I wanted to;
those crystal blue orbs tell so little. I raise an eyebrow at you, silently warning you to keep your eyes on the road, then lean back in my
temporary seat, eyelids lowering as I let the heater breathe its toasted air on my chilled form.

Suddenly you?ve stopped the car. I glance out the window, realizing that we?re at our destination. Without meaning to, I finish off my
soothing elixir, having only the un-dissolved grains and cinnamon flakes to stare at woefully. I grab the door handle, preparing myself
to leave this electric haven to return to the place I dread most.

A jacket ? your jacket ? is on my lap. I look at it in shock; it?s your fake leather jacket, the beige one with the warm, fleece-y inside.
Why would you give your one source of portable warmth to me? I shrug, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and slide it on over
my own, instantly enveloped in the intoxicating scent that is uniquely you. As I step out of the car, I look back at you, clad only in
your long-sleeved navy blue polo shirt and form-fitting jeans. Won?t you be cold? I?m worried for you. So I stand there, staring at you
as you stretch flexibly over your seat to the back, reaching for your beloved guitar, your converse-covered feet almost on the
dashboard that you keep so meticulously clean. You finally sit back, grasping your prize, face flushed, and catch my gaze with your
contaminated eyes?those beautiful, dying eyes. I don?t even have to say anything.

?Because you?re cold,? you say.