Winter Unclothed
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 4: November 19th First Layer
The days after the Saturday night encounter pass in a haze of grey light and cold air. I wake up on Sunday morning, and I don’t put on a shirt. I put on a bra. I put on pants. I put on boots. That’s all.
I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there, making coffee. She looks at me, at my bare arms, at my bare shoulders, at the bra that’s the only thing covering my upper body.
“Karen,” she says. Her voice is careful. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“I know.”
“Is this? “ She stops. She doesn’t know what to ask. “Is this something I should be worried about?”
I think about it. I think about the question. I think about everything that’s been happening, everything that’s been changing.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. “Alright.”
She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything else.
I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the snow. The snow is falling again, light and dry, the kind of snow that doesn’t stick but somehow makes everything colder.
I think about the man in the library. I think about his questions. I think about the answers I don’t have.
I think about the clothes. The clothes I’m not wearing. The layers I’ve shed.
I think about what’s underneath.
I don’t know if I’m ready to find out. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. But I know I want to try.
I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots. I grab my bag. I sling it over my shoulder.
And I walk out into the cold.
I walk to campus. The temperature is in the teens. The wind is coming off the river. My skin is exposed to the air. My arms are bare. My shoulders are bare. My neck is bare.
And I don’t feel a thing.
People stare at me. They look at my bare skin. They look at my bra. They look at me like I’m crazy.
Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going crazy. Maybe I’ve been crazy for years, and I just didn’t know it.
But I don’t care. I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what they see. I don’t care about any of it.
I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t wear a shirt.
In my Ethics seminar, I talk about the nature of the self. I talk about how we define ourselves by what we wear and what we do and who we love. I look at my students, and I see them trying to figure out how to look at me without being weird.
One of them raises his hand. His name is Marcus. He’s a senior, a philosophy major, someone who always asks difficult questions.
“Professor Berglund,” he says. “What you’re saying about the self, do you think the self is something we choose, or something we discover?”
I think about the question. I think about the answer.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think it might be both. I think we start with something, some core of who we are, and then we spend our lives building around it. We add layers. We add costumes. We add performances. And sometimes we forget what’s underneath.”
He looks at me. He looks at my bare arms. He looks at my bare shoulders.
“Have you forgotten?” he asks.
I look at him. I look at my students. I look at the room. I look at everything.
“Yes,” I say. “I think I have.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods. Then he looks down at his notebook and writes something.
I don’t know if I should have said that. I don’t know if I should have been that honest. But I can’t help it. The honesty is coming out of me, whether I want it to or not.
After class, Emily comes up to me. The same Emily who asked about the cold. She’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.
“Professor Berglund,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“I know.”
“Is this? “ She stops. She doesn’t know what to ask. “Is this something you’re doing on purpose?”
I think about it. I think about the question. I think about everything that’s been happening.
“Yes,” I say. “I think I am.”
She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.
“Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure.”
I walk to my office. I sit at my desk. I stare at the wall.
I think about what I said in class. I think about myself. I think about the layers. I think about what’s underneath.
I think about the bra. The bra I’m wearing. The one layer of fabric that’s still covering me.
I think about what it would be like to take it off.
I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
But I think about it.
I think about what it would be like to stand in my classroom, naked, with nothing between me and the world.
I think about what it would be like to be completely exposed.
I think about what it would be like to be real.
I sit in my office for the rest of the afternoon. I grade papers. I answer emails. I do everything I’m supposed to do.
And I don’t put on a shirt.
At five o’clock, I leave campus. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river.
The river is still frozen. The ice is thick and grey. The chunks of ice are still stuck together.
But something is changing. Something is happening. I can feel it.
The ice is starting to crack.
I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if the ice is actually starting to crack. But it feels like it. It feels like something is changing.
I walk to the library. I walk through the stacks. I pass the history section, the sociology section, and the philosophy section. I turn the corner toward my usual table.
He’s there.
He’s sitting in the same seat, wearing the same coat, looking at the same river.
I walk up to the table. I sat down. I take off my bag. I put it on the floor.
He looks at me. He looks at my bare arms. He looks at my bare shoulders. He looks at the bra that’s the only thing covering my upper body.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
We sit in silence. The library hums. The river flows. The hours pass.
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the notebook. He writes something. He slides it across the table.
Take off your scarf.
I read the words. I think about them. I’m not wearing a scarf. I haven’t worn a scarf in days.
I’m not wearing a scarf.
Then take off the next layer.
I read the words. I think about them. The next layer. The bra.
I look at him. He’s watching me. He’s not smiling. He’s not waiting for a reaction.
I reach behind my back. I unclasp the bra. I take it off. I put it on the table.
I sit there, with my bare chest exposed to the air. The air is cool on my skin. I feel it. I feel the air on my skin.
And I don’t feel cold.
I don’t feel anything.
But I feel something else. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. I feel like I’m on the edge of something.
He writes something else. He slides it across the table.
What are you covering?
I read the words. I think about them. What am I covering? I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m covering.
I will write back.
Everything I was told to be.
He reads it. He looks at me. He doesn’t nod this time. He just watches me, like he’s waiting for something.
“What do you mean?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken out loud.
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to put it into words.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Yes, you do.”
I don’t know why that makes me angry. I don’t know why it makes me feel like I need to defend myself. But it does.
“I don’t know,” I say again. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be. I’ve been performing for so long that I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what’s real and what’s just”
I stop. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I don’t know why he cares. I don’t know why I’m spilling my guts to a stranger in a library.
But he’s still watching me. He’s still waiting.
“Keep it off,” he says. “For the rest of the night.”
I don’t argue. I don’t say anything. I just sit there, with my bra on the table, and I don’t put it back on.
The library hums. The river flows. The hours pass.
I think about the question. What am I covering? I think about all the layers I’ve shed. I think about all the layers I still have to shed.
I think about what’s underneath.
I don’t know if I’m ready to find out. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
But I know I want to try.
The night passes. The library empties. The lights flicker. It’s time to go.
He stands up. He puts the notebook in his pocket. He looks at me.
“See you Tuesday,” he says.
And then he walks away.
I watch him go. I watch him disappear into the stacks.
I stand up. I pick up my bra. I don’t put it on.
I walk out of the library. I walk home through the cold. I don’t feel the cold. I don’t feel anything.
But I feel something else. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. I feel like I’m on the edge of something.
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