#56degrees

“Excuse me,” he interrupts, stopping her stride as he stands in her path, “But I want to know why you always tuck your hair in your hoodie.”

She tilts her head quizzically, but answers simply, “It keeps my hair somewhat contained.”

He considers a moment, before reaching up and pushing back the hoodie, gathering her hair from her neck and setting it free, for the wind to do as it wishes.

“You look like my favorite kind of weather,” he blurts, before nodding to himself, as if to confirm it.

She pauses and recalls a previous conversation, as she gazes up, and a little to the right, before dragging her attention back to his face, lazily.

“56 degrees, and overcast, with the kind of cold, gentle wind that only blows as a storm is rolling in, while the sky holds back a downpour in favor of a light sprinkle. The calm before the storm, the feeling of impending chaos,” she describes, her hair waving around her, and his face lights up.

“You remember when I told you, and how it felt.”

She smiles, and begins to walk again, as she declares, “It’s my favorite kind of weather.”