Another one of my vague, second-person pronoun things. I'm not even sure who 'she' exactly is.
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She wakes up to mornings that smell like cinnamon and burning leaves.
There are a million different hues of red and orange, gold and brown that swirl around on the ground, caught in little updrafts of wind. It's the last wind of the year that is almost pleasant in the way it bites at her checks and makes her face glow. Soon the air will be cold and hostile.
When she pulls a cake out of the oven for dinner company that night she sneaks a bite, and it tastes like the world outside. It is dark and rich and seeped in spices and the kind of warmth that comes from snuggling up in front of the fire with a friend and some tea. It is still early, but the sun is going down and it sending out the last rays of warmth over the cold grass.
She falls asleep to the sound of wind in dying leaves and her own breathing.
She wakes up to a dawn that is silent and muffled from the rest of the world.
Outside whites and greys make the world seem like it's halfway on its way to being dead. The air is empty and hangs around with only the occasional angry burst of wind to keep it awake and keep the people of the neighborhood inside. Lights stay on all day when the sky never quite pales to a blue.
She comes home from work with an aura of exhaustion and cold hanging around her. There is snow clinging to the bottom of her boots and some on her shoulders and cap. She shakes them out in the front room and leaves them by the door, where they make a puddle of water on the wood floor. The snow is coming down faster, trying to fill up the emptiness, but there is only so much the soft flakes can strive to do.
She falls asleep under blankets to keep the icy chill of the air away.
She wakes up to water on her windows and budding green.
Everything is making a bid for reanimation as it struggles out of the thawing ground, shades of olive and jade creeping over everything. If the sky isn't twinkling a happy new blue, it's drizzling out a fine mist of rain that can't really seem to get everything rained on. The world is washing its self clean of last season's sins and starting to live again.
Sometimes she feels as if the renewal of the season is extending to her. It creeps into her fingers, making them itch to do something different. She picks up pens and makes bold lines across empty paper. They stay in the bottom draw of her desk when she goes out to the park to breath fresh air that, for the first time in months, doesn't feel like it's leaving an irate trail of frost down her throat and into her lungs. She loves the feeling of the damp air against tired skin.
She falls asleep to glasses of mineral water that chase away the rest of the frost.
She wakes up to blinding sunlight and the soft whooshing of the fan overhead.
The sun is trying in a vain effort to burn up everything on the ground. The sky is livid in it's shocking blue, the trees thirsty for water but still gallantly pointing up to their aggressor. The world is alive with the colors of the flora and roadside cafes throwing open their doors to coax in some of the cheeriness of the sun. The ground ripples in the heat and a jet of water from an open fire hydrant sparkles in the sun like liquid diamond as it pours up and out.
She jogs down the side streets, where the shade of buildings cools off the asphalt that essential, tiny bit. Her shoulders and getting red from her trips out into the sun, and she can feel the sweat collecting on her neck and back. Her trainers making hard slapping sounds against the pavement as she weaves in and out of bikes and Vespas parked two and three deep up against the brick walls on either side of her. When she finally breaks back out into the sun, it seems as if everyone is out of the streets, soaking up enough warmth to last them through the coming months.
She falls asleep to the last dying purples and blues of the firmament.