Soren sent me a photo at 8:47 AM. It was of himself, in the mirror, wearing a silk scarf knotted at his collarbone over a linen shirt, looking extremely pleased. The caption said: "light layer secured." I looked at my phone. I looked out my window. The mountains were doing that thing where they look very close and very serious, and the light was bright in that Boulder way that means absolutely nothing about how cold it is.
I typed "it's 41 degrees" and then deleted it because I knew it wouldn't land.
We were meeting on Pearl Street, which was already full of people who had also been tricked by the sky. Half of them had jackets. The other half were visibly reconsidering their choices. Soren arrived looking like he was about to board a train in 1962. The scarf was genuinely beautiful — some kind of deep ochre with a tiny geometric print, and I hate that I noticed that. He had his hands in his pockets, which, if you think about it, is not a layering strategy.
"The sun is fully out," he said, by way of greeting.
"It's also forty-one degrees," I said.
"The sun is doing most of the work," he said. "The scarf handles the rest."
I want to be clear that the scarf was not handling the rest. The scarf was silk. Silk, as a material, is beautiful and historic and essentially a very elegant way to let the cold in. He had distributed his warmth budget entirely on aesthetics and was now running a deficit.
We walked toward Ninth Street because he wanted to look at the new construction near 28th and had somehow framed this as a morning activity. Within four blocks, the sky, which had been aggressively sunny in a deceptive and frankly manipulative way, started doing something else. Not raining. Just considering it. The light went a little flat. The temperature, which had been hovering in the low forties with confidence, seemed to recommit to that choice.
Soren adjusted the scarf. This did nothing thermodynamically but it did look intentional.
"The forecast said low fifties," he said.
"It also said showers late morning," I said.
"That's late morning," he said. "This is morning."
I checked my phone. It was 10:22.
He borrowed my jacket at 10:38. Just the outer layer, which left me in a fleece and a level of vindication I was trying not to show. He put it on over the scarf and actually looked pretty good, which I am choosing not to engage with.
We ended up getting coffee and sitting near the window at a place on Walnut, watching it start to drizzle in the way that Boulder spring drizzle does — not committing to rain, just reminding you that it could. Soren had both hands wrapped around his cup. The scarf was still knotted at his throat, doing its best.
"The thing about Boulder weather," he started.
"Soren."
"Is that you have to dress for the energy of the day," he finished. "Not the temperature."
I thought about this. I thought about the fact that we were going to walk back to the car in what was now actual rain, and that he was wearing silk and my jacket, and that he had sent me that mirror photo with genuine confidence at 8:47 in the morning.
"The energy of the day was cold," I said.
"The energy of the day was bright," he said. "I stand by the scarf."
The scarf had a small water spot on it by the time we got back to the car. He blotted it very carefully with a napkin and said it would be fine. I believe him, about the scarf. The scarf will recover.
Whether Soren will update his understanding of the relationship between sunlight and temperature is a question I've stopped expecting a clean answer to. He's already sent me a link to a linen blazer described as "transitional outerwear for the optimistic dresser" and asked if I think it "reads spring."
I told him it reads hypothermia.
He sent back a thumbs up, which means he's already bought it.