The forecast offers one temperature, but a day rarely feels that simple. At lunch, the table by the window is warm enough for bare forearms. An hour later, a cloud crosses the sun. You brought a knit because you knew you would be out until evening, although for now it rests beside you.

On the bench, cream folds fall between dark green slats. The red cap holds its shape beside them, its curved peak catching the light. For a moment, the things carried through the day form a small still life.

A spare layer asks for a little accommodation. Fold it into a bag and leave the top open, or drape it over an arm while looking for a free seat. It moves between these places as the afternoon passes, sometimes useful, sometimes simply along for the outing.

Dressing for these hours is partly an exercise in anticipation. Before leaving, picture the shaded terrace as well as the sunny pavement, the wait outside as well as the crowded room. One extra piece can make those different settings easier to enjoy.

The change arrives quietly. People move their chairs out of the shade. A glass leaves a cool patch beneath the fingertips. You lift the knit from the bench and pull it on, settling the neck and finding the ends of the sleeves. What was something to carry becomes something to wear.

There is no need to decide exactly when one season ends and another begins. The afternoon can keep its warmth; the evening can ask for another layer. Stay for the last of the light, with the cap in your bag and your hands tucked into the cuffs.