By Hannah Cauthen

November 27, 2017


A tiny green lizard clings to a brick outside the window. It takes in the late-morning light, attempting to combat the smooth chill in the air. I watch people filtering in and out of the restaurant wearing sweaters too thick for early September in Georgia. 

Blue eyes and an appropriately thick sweater sit across from me. “The world feels so much bigger when it’s cold,” he says with hash brown in hand while I stare in awe. “Brighter, too,” he continues, “like everything is snapped awake. The world just feels wide open, you know?” He goes on with breakfast; I contemplate the wide openness of the world. 

Before my thoughts spiral too far inward, I ask him about his schedule; something mundane that shouldn’t spark an existential crisis. He talks of meetings and I talk of books, and eventually we come to adventures we took with the same smooth chill slipping through hair and grazing over skin. We conclude that this in-between is the best season—when the long light of summer mixes with the brisk liveliness of fall. 

I look again at the lizard by the window. His pale yellow neck pulses every few seconds—a clawed foot juts out now and then for a stretch. I think he is content with this in-between as well. He can feel the cold ripple over his scales just before the sun washes him in warmth. He can feel the give and take of the world, perched on his little brick.

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