The Glassine Pocket

A gentle, warm draft drew me across the slate toward the window banquette. Resting beside the low floor vent was a clean pastry bag made of crisp, translucent glassine paper. I paused, watching the faint air current make the crinkled opening shiver. Inching forward, I guided my flat paper limbs into the narrow mouth. The paper envelope puffed softly outward, enclosing my torso in amber-tinted warmth. With each quiet pulse of air from the vent, the dry glassine vibrated softly against my edges, holding me sheltered and still.