minus twenty-six
Minus twenty-six on my phone this morning. Minus thirty-seven with the wind, which is the number people here actually say out loud. The inside of my nose froze between the door and the bottom of the stairs.
Our stairs: outside, iron, a half turn in the middle, twenty-three steps, painted grey a long time ago. I salt them every morning before work. Mme Desrochers on the ground floor watches me from behind her curtain and knocks twice on the glass when I'm done, which I've decided means merci.
She's 84 and has lived in this building since 1968. The middle flat has been empty since November. M. Medeiros, the landlord, is renovating it, which so far means a bucket of plaster in the middle of the floor and a radio the workers left on in there for company.
Last night the app kept nothing. Zero clips, first time. Maybe it's too cold to talk.