Rose sipped her tea and watched small wet flakes fall from the sky. Another gray day. The weatherman predicted a high of 12 degrees for the day. Rose shuddered at the thought and tucked her lap blanket securely around her lap. She watched a few pedestrians slip and slide as they walked along the icy sidewalk below. She hadn't left her apartment in nearly a month now. She couldn't risk the pneumonia coming back.
Behind her, she heard the lively tune of a game show jingle begin. The news programs were over, as were the daily talk shows. This was the interlude of energetic fans winning prizes before the soap operas began. Rose sipped her tea. It was already tepid. She'd make another cup in a moment.
A child, bundled in a thick coat, scarf, gloves and hat, held his mother's hand as she hunched her back against the bitter wind. She pulled her child down the sidewalk and Rose watched as the child leaned his head back and stuck his tongue out for a snowflake. Why did children always seem immune to the cold?
Caught up in his delight, Rose tentatively pressed a finger against the glass window. It was pure ice. She pulled her hand back and tucked her lap blanket tighter. She marveled again that such a thin sheet of glass separated her from the frigid air. Suddenly she wasn't so enamored of the scene outside. She'd turn her attention toward the television instead, and enjoy the comfort of being inside. She sipped her tea.
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