It's cold out.
It's so cold out that there is no moisture in the air, so your skin hurts even indoors where it's relatively warm. It's so cold that your wife declares the dogs will not get walked today. It's so cold that you wear your ridiculous knit hat and your ugly down coat—the one you only wear at night when walking the dogs—instead of your nice wool peacoat. It's so cold that the snow squeaks and the wooden steps crack and groan underfoot. It's so cold that you wear your gloves and put your hands in your pockets.
It's so cold that, when you arrive at the bus stop after a seven minute walk, you find ice in your mustache. Then after ten minutes of standing still at the stop your toes have gone numb. It's so cold that the little draft under the back door of the bus creates a little wind chill effect around your feet. Your little pocket notebook's spine has frozen so the pages don't turn, but pop out instead. And the twisting mechanism in your pocket pen has gone stiff so it doesn't push the ballpoint out.
It's so cold out that, when you get to your office and your hands begin to warm, your fingers swell so you run them under cold water. It's so cold out that the sky is clear (it doesn't get this cold out when it's cloudy) and the sun is painfully bright, though not warming. The shadows are sharp-edged and dark. It's so cold out that the contrast out the window is turned way up. The world is blacks and whites.
