My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The weather was weird, which, in California, means "not gorgeous." However, I was one of those Californians who liked that kind of weather. I enjoyed seeing the gray overcast skies, feeling the chill air tackle my nose and cheeks, and listening to the wind bristle through the dry trees that were still desperate for a bit more rain. Days like this in the Bay Area made hot chocolates taste better, sweaters feel more comfortable, and strolls around downtown seem like much more of an adventure. The life I was led was fairly mundane, regardless of sunshine or lack thereof. But I liked it that way. It was gray and overcast when I sat outside the local bookstore, trying desperately not to look Bohemian as I consumed a hot beverage and read an admittedly heavy tome. At a table nearby were scrawny twenty-somethings in beanies and vests and jeans torn just enough to show off that sexy patella. They sucked cold pseudo-coffee through straws and talked way too

I stayed under the covers and felt my breath rattle my ribs. It was cold out, too cold to get out of bed, and I felt like all of the warmth had been stolen from me in the night by some greedy, nameless phantom. The room was dark, and the sunlight glanced away from the window, leaving the glass frosty from the late winter morning. Yet I couldn't go back to sleep.