24 February 2003
Saturday night at the Equinox
Old Man Winter had been drinking. And between drinks, he was scowling at passersby and making notes on a three-by-five card, mumbling things I probably didn't want to hear and generally acting like a man who'd gone too long without a vacation.
I surmised that this wasn't the place to be, and I was halfway to the door when he spotted me. "So how'd you like that nor'easter?" he said.
I shrugged. "Wasn't there." Short, sweet, no details. Better that way.
But he wasn't giving up so easily. "Where you from, boy?"
I knew what was coming. "Saskatchewan, sir."
"Don't lie to me, boy," he growled. He looked at his card, looked at me, looked at his card again. "I know you. You run that damn stupid blerg, or whatever it's called. The one about the fruity pizzas." He spotted the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue at my side. "Well, Crustberries, or whatever your name is, since you're so goddamn anxious for spring, how'd you like a week in the deep freeze?"
"It is an honor I dream not of," I said truthfully.
"Spare me the cross-cultural references, Juliet. Get your fat ass home and get the snow shovel out of storage."
That was Saturday night. Sunday morning, right on schedule, the temperature dropped below freezing. It is not expected to recover until Thursday at the earliest.
Remind me to quit talking to this guy.
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