The shop windows were covered in frost, and the moment we were in wasn't any warmer.
Keats walked fast beside me. I could tell we were all being slowly belittled in his great mind, one by one:
Me, with my soggy boots and numb fingertips, Len with his crooked grin, chapped lips and red nose, and Thomas lagging behind with his glacial pace.
Keats was in his own anxty world, hating us all. He'd look at me with his stoney eyes and I'd forget everything for a moment. I swear I loved him that day. I'm not sure why I chose that day to love him. He was so mean then, if he didn't have his way.
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