I push the door open, leaving my office building lost in thoughts of dinner, but I hear the bustling activity of people and cars near me. At the corner, I slip on gloves as I wait for the signal to change.
Traffic rushes past me, a blur in my eyes. The wind picks up. I wince and lift my hood over my ears, tucking in my hair.
A halo of warmth covers my head under the puffy, black fabric. The hood muffles the city noise, creating a softened song for my ears. Initially, I like this. I continue walking the sidewalk to my bus stop, blinking store fronts and empty benches greet me, no people.
I wait for my bus. Cars turn onto the roadway without the crunch of tires on gravel. Businessmen walk by without the warning sound of footfalls. I realize that without loud sound, environment information is delayed. I don’t hear as well with my hood up, but it’s cold and I don’t want to sacrifice the comfort.
Every item I think of that covers a head–hats, hoods, wraps, earmuffs–all distort sound, too. Are my ears destined to be pink if I want to catch the surrounding audio in the wintertime?
My bus arrives, bringing a heated space with it. I board and settle in, hood down, ears listening all around.