Cold Hands, Warm Heart
I’d been cycling north for five hours,
wrestling with the wind.
He shouldered open the café door,
nodded to the girl behind the counter,
shuffled over the tiles,
dragged out the chair
and dropped into it.
He turned to face me,
leant forward,
said something in Danish.
I smiled and shrugged,
opened my mouth to release an apology.
He took my bare forearm in both his hands,
cradled it,
and softly squeezed.
He stared into my eyes and smiled:
“I’m cold.”
Cold Hands Warm Heart
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