Once they're out — and Wolfgang is struck again by the difference in temperature, the two different kinds of cold — they take a deep breath, holding it in their lungs. The air has a bite to it. It smells less like garbage and beer and damp concrete and too many people, they smell dirt, and grass, and slightly chlorine-tinged fountain water, and the grass and leaves are still green, some orange-red and still dropping off, it's the very tail end of fall. Their first in New York. Five years later, Wolfgang is still unused to living places that have seasons that aren't just "pleasantly warm" and "volcano hot."
Wolfgang sighs, and relaxes enough to smile. Their hand lingers on his for a moment before they release it. They wonder if anyone would get mad if they took their shoes off.