Flutter: An Anthology

An Old Christmas

I settle onto the tables of Cafe Tyrone. Worn, familiar wood scratches at my fingertips as I place a steaming coffee, two sugars and one cream, onto the ornate oak. At seven o'clock, the rush of visitors to this corner store have all but stopped, with only a lazy trickle of occasional regulars. Chilling air drives many of the residents home early, and there are no tourists this time of year.

The tinkle of a bell and the sound of the door opening attract my eye. In comes a man with efficient strides and gentle cinnamon eyes. He enchants a smile out of my tired lips. At the counter, his business man facade slips as he searches his pockets for his wallet. Calmly at first, then as a more frantic mess, groping within his blazer. He's a strange one.

I rise to my feet and make the journey to the homely cashier area, all browns and hazy greens. His unexpected drink is a small vanilla milkshake, as rare as temperate weather in this minuscule town.

"I've got it," I offer. His cheeks are a humbling shade of pink as he mumbles his thank you, shamefully accepting my payment. I give him a wink of my grey eyes, whispering, "You remind me of someone I used to know."

A grin dawns on his face and I feel nostalgia creeping up my fingertips. He bears the same twinkling, boyish, cat eyes, as green as those of my late husband. The difference is that this man has not been spirited away by the chant of bullets and war.

His hands scratch the back of his neck, fluttering uncertainty evident. Pity is an apple seed in my stomach. He clearly isn't happy about accepting my money.

"Why don't you walk with me to pay that milkshake off?"

His head lowers to look me full in the eyes and he bows his head, the most abrupt bob. The chimes of the door ring again as the two of us step into a desert of snow, my shin-high boots better suited for the wetness than his unfortunate leather dress shoes.

"What brings you this north, this cold time of year?"

His eyes raise to the sun shifting downward into the horizon. They look far ahead and away, not in this moment but somewhere else.

"I'm visiting an old lover. Her name is Rosalie," he answers. His voice shivers, affected by the snowflakes dappling his nose. An ungraceful sneeze leaves him with a frozen-over nose and a tightening of humiliated lips.

"So you've been here before?"

"Yes." As his fingers wipe away the remnants of his sneeze, a smile dances on his lips.

"Then show me the most beautiful place you've ever seen," I tell him, wondering what place he could show me for the stark payment of $4.00.

He pulls a hood over his hair, protecting it from thickening snow. The snowflakes catch on the fluffy hem instead. I do the same.

"Alright." He takes hold of my arm and spins me, waltz-style, in the opposite direction. Lightheaded and disoriented, I clutch his arm.

"You really couldn't find another beautiful place, perhaps in the direction we were going?"

His laughter is cocoa, the kind by the fireplace after a day of tumbling in the snow.

"But the best spot is this way," he tells me, and guides me past a rickety bench almost drowned in white.

"That's where we'll take our date then?

He clucks his tongue. "How lucky! I'm on a date with someone as breath taking as you."

His eyes dart down as I feel the slight chill of his fingers intertwining with mine. A heat fills my face, making my ears tingle. My brittle hair, a little too blanch to look blonde, is tucked away, but I know that the strands are far from beautiful. And my face, with its cracked lips, chapped from the cold, are not as youthful as they should be.