The thermometer in Milan still read like July. Four women walked past me in real coats.
None of them looked hot
Brera, the third week of August. Buttoned, some belted, worn as though October had already arrived. Nobody looked like they had made a mistake.
She will not check a forecast
Ask an Italian woman when fall starts. It starts the week the coats come back out of the closet, whatever the thermometer says.
Not the heavy one
That stays folded another month at least. The first one out is lighter, cut close to the body, meant to be worn open as often as closed.
Ten minutes on either side
An over-cooled restaurant, a chilled office, a warm evening waiting outside it. The coat solves that gap, weeks before real cold exists.
Before the season admits it
By the time it is genuinely cold enough to need one, everyone else will just be catching up.