He stood on his balcony and surveyed the city that lay sprawled out before him. Water vapour formed small clouds each time he exhaled, and if he exhaled through his nose, the vapour would form two trails downwards. One could entertain that he somewhat looked like a dragon, blowing two trails of smoke from its nostrils as it scowled its prey. But he wasn’t scowling. Rather the opposite, in fact. He was in a fine mood, and although his vest and shirt – which he had rolled up to his elbows – didn’t do much to keep him warm now that it was getting colder, he paid it no mind. His mood was too good to be bothered by mere temperature. Besides, he enjoyed the cold.
“It’s getting to be that time again now, Gringham,” he said, not turning to look at the man who was standing behind him. “Time to pull out the scarves and gloves and coats. To bring in the firewood. To close the window when you go to bed for the night.”
“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.
The man smiled as he stood there, looking at the city, looking at nothing in particular.
“I do enjoy the winter,” he continued, “Wonder when the first snow will fall.”
He twirled his moustache round one finger. If he had to be honest, his moustache could have been twirlier. He was already a striking man, even for his age. Or perhaps especially for his age. Well, he was striking by any standards, really. Anyway, he was striking, of that he was sure. His very appearance commanded respect, and he was fairly certain that even if he had not accomplished all the amazing things that he had throughout his life, people would still treat him like a leader of men, merely because of his looks. But his moustache could well have been twirlier, and this thought put somewhat of a damper on his mood.
Men like him do not stay down for long however, and soon enough these thoughts were replaced by memories of winter.
“You remember that time we went to the pole, Gringham?” This time he turned slightly, if only to hear the reply better.
“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.
The man looked like someone who could have been to the pole. Either of them. Or both, as was actually the case. Gringham did not. Scrawny little Gringham. With the thin, red hair, and the deep furrows all over his face. Gringham was certainly not striking. You’d probably rather want to forget him after seeing him. He certainly looked like he had experienced much, but he did not look like he would survive a trip to the pole. Either of them. Or – as was the case – both.
It was getting cold, and dark, and it was time to get inside. The man took a last long look across the city which, as the night encroached on the day, had lit up in a myriad of small lights. The man rested his arm across Gringhams back, grabbing his shoulder firmly, brotherly.
“Let’s get some tea and reminisce, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” said Gringham.
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