Ghost in a fuzzy shell

Fuzzy Consciousness

Do you think fuzzy socks make a fuzzy person?

Or do fuzzy people gravitate toward things that reflect their essence?

Autumn is the season of fuzzy people—not cold enough to be a house cat, but not warm enough to leave home without colorful socks and puffy sweaters. It’s a time for coffee shops with wood accents, warm candlelight, and hues that match the leaves.

You can spot a fuzzy person by what they wear. A black t-shirt and black Lululemon pants scream California summer—a world without seasons. That’s not New York; that’s a fly-in, fly-out type of person.

We attract homebodies in this cafe. Some wear over-ear headphones; others have wireless earbuds from the last decade. Style here is agnostic of price—you spend $6.50 on a coconut-cardamom latte or a maple-cinnamon cappuccino if you’re feeling seasonal.

A man walks by with a baby in a well-knit blue carrier under a brown overcoat. He’s a kangaroo, the baby bouncing with excitement at the fall breeze on Bedford Street—wide-eyed, pampered, and loved. The whole world is dilated. When was the last time you looked at the world with a baby’s eyes, thrilled by the vibrancy of new colors?

Sometimes I just want to feel things. The straw of my chair is crisp and coarse. The cushion is rough but plush. The marble on the table cool and soothing. I want to touch her fluffy blue sweater and feel its fuzz. I want to dip my hand in his ice water and recall my last cold plunge. I want to chew the ice and think of iron deficiency. I want my foot to ache in tall boots. I want to feel what it’s like to have smooth, shoulder-length hair.

Can a ghost who feels every person’s sensations retain any part of its original self? Can it hold dual consciousness—two independent thoughts, living in unison? Does the fuzziness of a person transfer, by mere proximity, to an unfuzzy being who feels it so deeply?