A Passing Glance

Snow fell on a small, secluded café, the windows covered in frost, and the warmth radiating from within. It stood on a decently sized lot, just recently sold to the current owner. He took what used to be a deserted diner, and gave it a decidedly retro feel, with the deep red seat cushions a contrast to the black and white tile floors. The hanging lamps gave their warm light to the dark oak tables, chipped, and scratched up from years of wear and tear. A woman carefully sipped from her steaming mug of hot cocoa as she sat cross-legged on her seat cushion. The marshmallows in her cup swirled around in the sea of chocolate, slowly dissolving with each passing moment. She shot a glance at the front door as it swung open before returning her attention to the mug.

The woman’s little slice of window gave her a perfect view of the town—snowfall at last. The flakes fell lightly, peppering the ground with patches of white. The trees stood bare, lined with icicles, and swaying in the winter winds. Out of one tree came a pair of squirrels, scurrying across the grass that remained, searching for stray acorns before returning to their burrow. The woman’s warm hazel eyes followed the couple as they disappeared into the brush.

Aside from her short exchanges with the waiter, the woman had sat quietly since she entered the café. Her face was that of a painted maid, worn yet stoic. The bags under her eyes sagged, dark and deep, clashing against her otherwise olive skin. The dimples around her mouth stretched with every sip before relaxing into a contented smile. Her gaze sat comfortably on the empty seat in front of her: an identical red cushioned bench which remained vacant.

A man sat alone in that same café. He adjusted himself several times in his seat before settling into the cushion, wrapping himself in his long beige trench coat. He sat up straight and turned his attention now to the cup of coffee that sat on the table before him. He lifted the drink to his dry slim lips slowly and intently, looking around after every gulp. After a particularly satisfying sip, he sat a little deeper in his chair, tightened his leathery face, and glanced out upon the town with his brown eyes—dark as molasses. Children played, men in suits rushed to their arrangements, and couples pranced without a care. He brushed a hand through his thinning hair, lined with silver streaks and made messy by the miserable gale, as he turned back to his coffee, mesmerized by its foamy swirl. His spindly hands grasped the mug tightly, holding on to every last ounce of warmth.

The man was the first to go once his cup had gone cold, paying the woman a passing glance as he left. The woman’s gaze remained down at her drink, which by now was more lukewarm than hot, yet still she reveled in its soothing nature. As she drank the final drop, her dimples tightened as a brief smirk snuck across her face.

The man walked briskly into the oncoming wind, the flurries of snow battering against his unshaven face. His boots gripped onto the icy concrete as he continued past the sullen brick buildings with their half-lit signs and desolate parking lots. His eyes were glued to the sleet beneath him, making each step careful and firm. The snow slid off the slim branches of the towering pines above. He clenched his jaw as a gust of wind beat against his face like icicles stabbing into his skin. After it passed, he approached the car park, got into his car, turned the heat on full blast, and drove off.

The woman took one last glance outside before sliding her legs over and getting up from the deep red cushions. Once on the sidewalk, she took small yet certain steps, as she worked her way past the towering pines, dripping their snow below. She grimaced as a sudden chill sent shivers down her back, her teeth chattering as she kept on, sneaking deeper into her dark green puffer jacket. She was nearing the car park and, luckily for her, her minivan was right where she left it.

As she sat down in the driver’s seat, she placed her dark leather purse down next to her, rubbed her reddened nose, as her breath rose from her mouth. She glanced up at herself in the rearview mirror, raking down her jet-black hair, and ghosting over her graying roots. She looked back now, grabbed the wheel, and took off down the beaten road, the sun illuminating its faded lines. At a stoplight, she peered out her side window, peeking into the buildings she knew so well. A spark of joy flashed across her face; the memories flooded her mind, and for a second, she had nearly forgotten it was winter.

After an otherwise uneventful commute, she pulled into her driveway, the beige pavement crunching under the black rubber tires. She carefully creaked open her car door and slowly made her way to her front porch. A brilliantly normal porch, however, the usual structure had transformed in the winter storm, now lined with white trimming, and strung with shimmering icicles. The sunlight bounced off the windowpanes, blinding her as she entered her home.

Moments before the woman arrived at her driveway, the man arrived at his. He propped his feet up as he lounged on his La-Z-Boy. He looked over at the corner table next to him, where his copies of Hemmingway and Faulkner lay unread. He instead grabbed the remote beside the copies and turned on the television. His Christmas tree, still lined with its ornaments and decorations, sat beautifully beside the television table, giving the room some much-needed life. Beside the tree hung red and white stockings over the empty fireplace, which had not been used in years.

The woman made her way through her home before she sat down at her dining room table, an object made of clear glass and strong metal. Above the table hung a stunning French-style chandelier, its golden frame gleaming in the sun that crept through the skylight above. On the table was an empty flowerpot with beautiful floral designs, at which she examined intimately and longingly. At a closer glance, the pot seemed to have been cracked once or twice in its lifetime, with one major line along the middle of the pot branching out into a few smaller cracks at the top. Thankfully, the woman had glued the cracks together last spring.

Both the man and the woman sat comfortably, now only a few miles apart. The man stared off at a television set, and the woman at her recently repaired flowerpot. Yet for just a moment, they both gazed out their windows, looking out at the snow-lined trees and the grass peppered with white flakes. They watched as icicles hung from the slim branches above, and the squirrels chased each other around willow trees, and in that very moment, they both got the feeling that it wouldn’t be long before the birds would chirp once again.