Cold, doughnuts, and writing

I am sitting here in the sun at a little round table in a triangle offshoot of a hall in the chemistry building. Some architect thought big ceiling to floor windows would be nice. They are nice, even if they are always fogged up in the wistful manner of windows that know they should be in a mansion looking out over a lake and some rolling hills, but only have a parking lot.
I came in because I thought it would be a nice warm thing to do and I could practice writing like Hemingway wrote when he was in Paris. I finished reading his book last night. Then I read the Cheese Monkeys. I was absolutely certain I could finish it in one night, and I did too. The Hemingway was what left an impression, though.
This morning I woke up too warm, so went for a walk outside. It was very cold and I regretted wearing only one pair of pants, but I did not regret the walk. I was very cold as I went down the road to the park, because it’s coldest in the shadow of the blocky dorms and the trees and the hill itself. The snow was too cold to be quiet, so every step sounded like squeaking cardboard. My hood rustled too, and developed a rime of frost from my breath.
In the park the snow was deep, so I balanced on packed snow in someone’s ski trail and walked towards the rising sun. The frost on the trees glowed with the sun behind it, and at the bridge steam from the water rose in a hazy golden cloud. The words for winter are white—shiny, sparkly white—and gold, and two types of blue. There is the gaudy blue of the sky and the subtle clear blue of the shadows, or distant trees.
I’ve been thinking of ways to describe the trees on the horizon and the word filigree comes to mind. If delicate lines were etched with simplicity and great detail into the pale edges of the sky and the darker shades of the blue shadows were poured into the lines, that might describe the trees.
I was very cold around the legs, though warm under my coat, and was thinking that if I held out and didn’t get frostbite I would see if the bakery was open. And then I thought it was further away than I remembered. I tried jogging to keep warm, and then I tried jogging to get back into the sunlight. By now I was off the ski trail and walking on tire tracks. I stopped sometimes to run my hands up and down my legs to make sure I didn’t have frostbite. When I got to the road to the bakery I walked nervously, because there wasn’t a sidewalk and the plowed road wasn’t very wide. But there weren’t any cars either, not on a Sunday morning.
I was very glad the bakery was open. I stood inside the doors and looked at the doughnuts on trays behind glass. Finally I asked for a blueberry turnover. When I started digging through my coat’s pockets for money the clerk said no, no charge, it was customer appreciation day and everything was free. So I also got milk and a paper and sat down to read and eat breakfast.
The turnover had a thick berry filling, though the pastry left a film of grease on the roof of my mouth. After I had demolished it I turned to the paper. Other people came in while I was reading, and after a while the smell of coffee and doughnuts was almost maddening. As soon as I finished the paper I got another bag with more pastries to take back to the dorm. A whole family came in as I left, parents and four girls with long blond hair. I heard the clerk wearily repeat his greeting, “It’s free, everything’s free today,” one more time, and then I was back outside. I felt lucky and cold as I headed towards campus with a waxed paper bag of pastries clutched in one hand.
Then I saw the chemistry building, which is unique on campus for being open all the time, even on Sunday. I went inside to sit by the windows and write about my morning.