on the way to buy milk

The cold is biting. It always is but somehow I forget every time I've been inside for a while. I look up at the cold black sky. No stars. A crumpled pack of cigarettes is somewhere in my jacket. Where did I put them? I find them with the lighter in my inner pocket. Three left. I pull one out and try to light it. The wind has other plans. Huddled in the corner next to my door and using both hands, I get it lit and walk out into the swirling night air. It's not long after dinner, and I'm only going to the store to get some milk, but the cold and dark and wind make it feel later. It is quiet at first, but by the time I reach the gate I can hear a trumpet playing lazily nearby. The music changes volume and pitch because of the wind and echoes off the building behind me. I stop and listen and lose track of time, cigarette forgotten in one hand, the other on the gate handle. For a moment I'm mesmerized by the ghostly sound of the echoing trumpet--mournful and alone in the cold evening.

A cold gust brings me back. I open the gate and step through, put the cigarette in my lips and zip my coat all the way to my chin to keep out the cold. When I round the corner the street is empty except for a couple parked cars. The trumpet is no longer audible; it's lost somewhere behind me. I survey the road for a second then begin walking up it at a pace just fast enough to show an onlooker I'm cold. One hand holding my cigarette, the other jammed in the pocket of my jeans keeping my keys and a couple coins company.

Strange noises come drifting down the empty street. I can't tell what they are, and I glance over my shoulder to see if I notice anything. Nothing but the wind which blows the sound away for a moment. When it sails back it is the tinny music of an ice cream truck that I cannot see. I stop, watching the end of the street to see if it will pass, listening to the busted-speaker sound it makes. A car on the street behind me turns me away. I watch it pass and forget the ice cream music and my thoughts about how poor a night it is for ice cream. I puff on the cigarette, head down to keep the warmth in my jacket if that is possible, and walk on.

The store isn't far, not even far enough to finish a cigarette. I always forget that. This road is busier, and I watch the traffic hurry from here to there, on the way home or on the way out, to see friends or family or lovers. I reach the door of the little store where I always buy milk. After one last drag on the cigarette, I flick it into the street. Along with it go all the strange thoughts and sounds of my walk here, and I enter the store.