Nor (Wattpad Featured Story, WriteAffair finalist)

Chapter 15: First Boy

I once read that more people kill themselves during winter than any other season. Sitting here at home by myself, I think I can understand why. It's December, and this house feels like death. My father isn't around, and it's almost one a.m. Not that I care where he is, really. But I just can't take this weird feeling, like time isn't moving, and I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. You'd think I'd be happy to be on Christmas vacation, but it's not much better than going to school everyday.

At some point, I'm on my feet. I'm drifting out of the house, throwing it into darkness before I shut the front door behind me. The elevator seems lazy as it brings me down, like it wants to know what I'm doing in it. There's no one in the lobby except the door guy. He peers questioningly at me as I walk through, but doesn't ask. Doesn't make stupid comments about how dangerous it is outside.

I feel like I'm walking through ice as I head down to one of my favorite places, Artie's. It's a café that runs twenty-four seven, and is owned by a guy who used to be a lecturer, a journalist, and a pot-pie eating contest winner. I'm not sure how that last one got in there, but that's how he introduced himself to me when I first met him, and I thought I'd go along with that thread.

"Hey, Nora!" he greets me as I come in, looking particularly sprightly for this late hour. There's no one else around in this tiny, bedroom-sized space except for a pair of college students studying. Studying. In December. What nerds. I hang up my coat, sighing a wheezy breath as I walk up to the counter. "Artie. Caffeine high?"

"All I took was tea. Moroccan mint. Good stuff. Still did this to me."

"It wasn't decaf?"

"I haven't found decaffeinated Moroccan mint yet."

"Can you invent some?"

"I have better things to do."

"Right. Like this?" I guess, gesturing around the lifeless café.

He leans against the counter, slowly shaking his head at me. "Actually, I'm waiting for Billie."

"Billie?"

"The girl with the dreads and the red glasses."

"Oh, right."

"She's a little late."

"Uh, isn't she always?"

He shrugs, scratching his white goatee.

"Well, she probably has a good reason."

"Yeah. That good reason is a guy named Mike Palowski and his mouth."

"Ew, Artie, I don't care! And why do you, anyway?"

"I don't. But I learned a long time ago that women seem to think that people want to hear everything about them. I mean, write a book if you need to get it all out, ladies. But don't give your whole life story to me."

"Well, I'm not like that," I hope, thinking that one of the college kids is looking at me.

"So what are you having, Nora?"

"Cappuccino. And the white chocolate cake."

"Uh, actually, I'm thinking you should go for the mango cheese instead."

"Why? What's wrong with the white chocolate?"

"Well, it's been waiting its turn for a few days, if you know what I mean. Today's its last."

"Fine, give me the mango." I slump against the counter as I watch him work. His movements are short and smooth even though he's well over fifty. I notice he pulls out the last slice of white chocolate cake and sets it aside to be thrown away. A nice winter death for a nice wintry cake.