My hands are cold. Cold like the first steps out of a steaming shower. Cold like the feel of fingernails slashing against a chalkboard. Cold like mornings on a summer campout. Cold like the mountain air that laughs frigid wind. Cold like a winter sun.
My hands are so cold they are purple. As purple as the tips of a sunset cloud. As purple as the twenty-five cent grape soda that was sold in the vending machine next to Albertson's. As purple as the first leaves to change color in the fall. As purple as the face of my 10th grade basketball coach after we missed an open layup. As purple as the floor of my Honda Civic after I spilled my sister's smoothie while driving. As purple as the jar of jelly that's sitting half empty next to the peanut butter.
My purple hands are now too cold to type.
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