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 ^{(it's beta!)}

We never knew each other outside the context of winter coats.

Stiff cocoons of green, army issue, water-proof fabric lined with finely quilted batting encased in olive green polyester or his felt-like pea coat with a faux satin lining and bright plastic buttons, his collar upturned in the absence of a scarf, which held us, padded us from harsh Chicago winds, City of Big Shoulders, Windy City, my ears eaten bitterly by the tiny pinpricks of wind through my thin hat.

I remember his hat—red and blue wool with a fleece lining and flaps that pulled down over his ears—the hat I borrowed on the float at the South Side Irish parade when tiny March snowflakes clung to the wool of the hat and the ends of my hair. I didn’t return that hat until after Easter.

The spring startled us apart. Without our coats, thick and warm, we were vulnerable and our feelings too close to the surface of our thin, translucent skin. In the gentle coaxing of April air my heartbeat could be seen clearly in my wrist, pattering quickly when he moved his chair closer to mine in our small, shared office.

“Jeopardy is on,” he would say, breath tickling the small hairs on the back of my neck as he reached around me to grab the remote—3:30, time for a break. The first few times we watched the quiz show I sat quietly at my desk, trying to answer my e-mails and sort through my charts, but when he said, “It’s not as much fun to play this by myself,” I found myself vying for his attention with right answers and sly comments.

Before my veins betrayed me, there was no embarrassment. Long sleeves covered the rapid expansion and contraction of my heart pushing blood through my body, and my coat held in all the warmth my body leaked out. On a Friday night we stood on the El platform and my teeth chattered, they clacked loudly in my head, a rapid tattoo of the wind sneaking in through the side of my canvas sneakers. He moved closer to me, put an arm around my shoulders, and rubbed his gloved hand along my shoulder. It was just hours earlier on the rush-hour crowded blue line that he’d pressed his chest against my back, his hand on my arm, to help steady me against the stops and starts of the lurching train. I’d wanted that hand on my waist, my hip, searching for me underneath the bulk of our winter wear. There was no more of that, though.

In the spring time I took to wearing cardigans to hide the pulse in my wrist. I swept my hair back. I tried to hide myself. He was transferring. February was forgotten. Gone were train rides where he held me back to show me when we passed his high school, when he would posture defensively to keep the other boys away, when he would tell me about the first time he rode the train by himself. No longer could I inch my hand toward his across my lap.

On the last day before he left we got the new Death Cab for Cutie CD. I drove him home that night, listening to the album and the soft turning of his head as he watched the other cars speed past us. Ben Gibbard sang a song about the thaw of spring ruining a relationship and all I could begin to consider was the absence of my coat. I had the windows rolled down and the May breeze twisted around my neck, tightening, making me wish for a biting wind to nip this sadness away. I never wanted my bare skin to touch his—only gloved hands or palms against the rough coats of winter.

We never did know each other out of the context of winter coats.