His breath was dancing, clumsily, billowing into the moonlight. Each passing car gave his breath a step of movement followed by momentary stillness until the next roar of an engine.

He was always cold. Even bundled in a scarf, two layers of thermal sweaters, and a jacket he was still cold. Shorts were a nonentity in his life. It was especially in his hands, a deathlike cold aching its way to the ends of his calloused fingers. Gloves were a must. Of course, sweating was another of his constant problems. Breeziness still managed lines of sweat down his back, regardless of his layered, pillow-like appearance.

He was always in a conundrum.

He was the epitome of a cold sweat.

And epitome reached a whole new level when the car screeched to a halt at the edge of the sidewalk, framing his breath in a single constant light, frozen in the same dance step.