The Ferocity of a Warm Winter Hug

I stand amidst the thronging hunger of the city, yet I am entirely still. The cold air tries to bite at my skin, but this cream-colored wool acts as a second layer of flesh, soft and suffocatingly warm against every nerve ending. Around me, they are wild beasts in human shape—scuffling for space, screaming with their raised hands—but here, wrapped in the red plaid like a flag of surrender to winter's bite, I am safe.

In my hand, the glass is heavy and amber-hued. It holds liquid gold that promises heat from the inside out. The foam at its lip tastes sweet on my tongue before it even touches me, mirroring the sweetness blooming in this crowd. My smile isn't a mask; it's a baring of teeth to show I am unafraid of them or the cold. There is a primal pull here, an ascetic grace maintained by sheer will and soft wool.

Editor: Leather & Lace