Cold Comfort

I recoil from the still-too-bright sun filtered through overcast sky as the shades pull open. Though air-conditioned safely inside, I can still feel the sticky warmth of the humid mid-summer pressed up against the window like a sponge threatening to soak me up. Nearly 100 days, or so it seems, have passed since I stepped outside, but today that needs to change; if I miss my appointment with the placement officer again, my application for financial aid will be denied and I can kiss my dreams of being a professional illustrator goodbye.

Still in the clothes I slept in, wrinkled as they are from wearing them a few days straight, I shuffle to the kitchen, not hungry but I still need to eat. The refrigerator is bursting with leftover Chinese food containers and a mostly empty pizza box, both delivered some time last week, and are crowded by too many condiments. There, an overripe orange peeks at me from the crisper, its peel slightly wrinkled like my shirt. A small sugar rush along with a tart sting wets my tongue, but the taste retreats from my stale breath and unbrushed teeth.


I nearly slip on a pile of delinquent rent notices that litter the floor as I stumble towards the bathroom, all of it a mindless routine. Everything is gray, not just because of the light, though the overcast sky do accentuate the effect; my apartment, like countless others located in the reclamation project is made of the last resource left abundant with which to do anything useful: concrete. Apartment 1702-A, Complex C, Bayside Palisades; a desperately cheery name given the bay had been replaced years ago by a sea-water treatment plant.

 The door clicks closed and halfway down the first flight of stairs I pat myself down: wallet, keys, gas-mask, all in place, but as my hand brushes against my chest I notice it missing. A dull heat flushes my face with panic and I bolt back to my apartment door, tripping on the last step. I fumble a bit with my keys and find the right one after dropping them a few times. I push hard against the door willing it to transport me to the bedroom faster than I could possibly run. 

 It’s not on top of the dresser next to the bobble head collection or my rain hat. It’s not by the sink next to the bar of soap where I put it if I shower. It’s not under the pile of clothes on the corner of the bed. The dresser, did I check the top of the dresser? My room tossed, I lean against the door frame, my eyes darting from place to place trying to think back to the last time I saw it, wore it even… two days ago, last week? I toss the room again, checking underneath the bed and in the closet shoe rack; even though I know it’s absurd that it would be there, I still need to check. I rush down the hall, slipping on those rent notices, to the living room, upending couch seat cushions and scattering papers across the desk desperate to find it. A myriad of not-good-enough drawings flutter to the ground in my wake. 

 I stop, nearly out of breath, feeling as if I sprinted a marathon in minutes. My head is pounding with fever-pitch panic. The hallway to the bedroom stretches away from me, my eyes pulling focus like a horror movie director does for a beat too long. I walk back to the bedroom resigned to defeat and take a final gaze across the carnage my desperation has wrought. And there, glistening in the bowl of loose change on my bedside table, it sits draped casually, mockingly even, in the light of the reading lamp I forgot to turn off.


I gather up the heart-shaped locket in both hands and press it hard against my cheek; it’s refreshingly cool despite having sat underneath the light of the lamp. The memories come flooding back; a fall courtship, a winter proposal, a springtime anniversary. Walks on the beach with the dog, sea-foam lapping at our feet. A first kiss, and a final goodbye at the side of her hospital bed. I plunge into the frigid depths of despair one more time; my hands and feet begin to numb as I stand there clutching the locket, promising to never misplace it again. I am chilled, for the first time in years despite the scorching drought, and it feels divine. The gelid depths wrap around me like a blanket, and the vivid memories draw a stream of tears from an endless wellspring.

 A time later, I stand up from the floor, still holding the locket now at my breast. I pull the locket chain over my head and I can finally take a breath. The hot panic leaches away from my face and the pounding in my temples disappears as the locket settles in the middle of my chest, still refreshingly cool. I can feel sweat rolling down my back, so I take off my shirt and pants and towel myself off with them. I find a cleaner button-up shirt, at least one that isn’t as wrinkled or smelly, and a fresher pair of pants. In the bathroom I splash some water on my face and run a comb through my hair; a proper shower would help, but Im already running late. I pick up my satchel and my gas mask, discarded in my delirious frenzy and head for the door, past the wreckage of the living room, tiptoeing around the scattered mail on the floor. 

 As I lock my door and start down the stairs a small smile creeps across my face; how silly it was to panic over such a small thing. I vow to never lose it again, although eventually I will many tames. I bear the locket with me, along with the memories of love and loss, and I am refreshed, at least for a time as I bathe in the light of overcast skies.