"Shit, I forgot the contact lens solution," Katie says, and so I head out into the night to the 24-hour drugstore a few blocks away, walking beneath a moon hanging like a half-lidded eye in the cold, blue-black darkness of the sky above the brownstones.
Initially the chill seems bearable, but it gradually increases, the inverse of the heat being turned up on that proverbial frog who doesn't know he's going to be boiled, and by the time I get to the glowing fluorescent oasis, my cheeks are stinging and my fingers are starting to ache.
I get my provisions, I'm called to the cashier, but when we begin our transaction my metaphorical whiskers start to twitch and I turn to watch the guy behind me in line as he now stands about a foot away from me, definitely in my personal space.
He notices me noticing him, and I only have to bristle a little before he moves away, probably just drunk, definitely a little abashed, harmless enough, most likely.
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