The Last of Winter

 

           

 The Last of Winter

 

BelAir

 

 

 

 

             It ends tonight, the newscaster was balling over the radio, the last day of winter!

            This was followed by another onset of news no one probably cared to listen to: Bernie Maddolf was scheduled for court, another unidentified individual had been pulled from the city’s sewer system, gas prices were on the rise once again. He listened, sitting there as rain tattered against the car’s windshield, until the ramble was finished, and then pushed out into the soggy night. He didn’t mind getting wet or the possible damage rain could do to the fine suit he purchased just the other day, even though it had become his favorite by far, and the nicest one he owned, too. The man only walked in the rain toward the restaurant, smiling a little, as couples fled under umbrellas toward their own cars.

            Inside it was warm. He would dry quickly. A dark-haired woman with a small, button-nose smiled at him as she was trained to do and led him toward a table in the back.

            The smell of garlic and a countless number of other undisclosed spices took him back for a second as he followed her. And there was the smell of wine, of sweet alcohol just faintly behind it all, and not entirely unpleasant.

            The table sat branched away from the main lobby, divided by classy brick walls that rose only five feet or so, decorated in baskets of flowers. Next to him, a wall-length mirror, and on the facing wall, eloquent black and white pictures of what he presumed to be Italy.

            Soon a young waiter came for his drink, clutching the neck of a wine bottle, like a caught chicken ready for the chopping block. The man examined it for a moment and nodded. The waiter disappeared. When he returned, there was a wine glass in his hand and a writing tablet for his order. He already knew what he wanted.

            The wine was sweet and perfect.

            A quarter of six and the place was filling up fast. Around him families laughed and shared their day and couples held hands and children giggled at each other, exchanging jokes in that foreign language only the young seem to share. The man watched them in their tranquil beauty. He remembered something some one had said to him long ago, or which he had overheard: spring is where beauty begins.

            And it had been an ugly winter indeed.

            But now it’s all over.

            The man flashed a smile at his wine glass and took another sip.

            “Sir.”

            He tightened, looked around.

            A man from the table across the aisle from him. He pointed downward toward his chair leg, where a baby’s toy laid, one of those teething animals with rubber hands and feet. His wife smiled apologetically on the other side of him. He winked at her and bent to pick it up. The whole time the beautiful family watching him. There was the couple and their child and two more adults, family friends, one would suppose. But what did it matter? The point was, winter was over, and they were celebrating.

            He crossed over to the table, feeling the animal’s stupid gaze on him below from his hand, until it was lost in the baby’s grip. He snatched it away and resumed his gnaw and smiled as big as he could in return, a blue-eyed, blonde-haired doll. The family laughed and gave their thanks, and he ruffled the child’s hair and took his seat.

            The meal was excellent. The chicken was flavored enough by grilling, the noodles by a heavy cream sauce, bread sticks chewy and fresh, and the salad zingy but not too sour in a homemade vignette dressing. He took his time and paced himself eating it, watching the restaurant bustle with people, so alive: there was a woman with dark, Indian skin who wore a dress with a high slit up the side, exposing one upper thigh, an older couple, retired in an ere of wealth and carelessness, making their way through a pricy bottle of champagne, an adolescent girl meeting her parents for dinner, four men in baseball caps, away on business from their wives, probably. He thought it fascinating to see all of the different lives going on in this one room, joined together under strands of dazzling bulbs and low ceiling lights for this one night.

            After a while the man contemplated desert and agreed. What the hell! This was a celebration, after all! Waiters cleared and washed his table and brought it out—Torta di Chocolate with vanilla sauce and pears—and another glass of wine.

            The bill followed after with two mints resting inside, which he put in his pocket. He wanted the taste of the meal to remain, to savor what he could and to remember it. His stomach was already beginning to protest, but he didn’t care because it didn’t matter all the same.

            A smile reappeared as he observed the bill’s total.

            The most expensive wine.

            The most expensive meal.

            Dessert.

            The man paid in cash, tucked the money and the tip away in the sleeve, and rose to leave, slipping his jacket on once again.

            He slipped both mints to the blue-eyed baby on his way out, sure he wouldn’t be able to break them with his small teeth before swallowing.

            The night had turned over to a mist when he stepped out.

            People were still coming in, and that was good.

            He reached for the glove box in his car and retrieved the knife there.

            Winter is gone, the murders are done.

            They don’t know, but it ends tonight.

            The long, cold winter ends.

            Somewhere in the distance, police sirens.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Don't go easy on me!

Reviews

[Sarah Hawkinson]

I really enjoyed the mystery of this story, but I almost feel as if there's too much mystery. Was he a killer? Why was he at the restaurant? etc. question in my mind. But good writing and a great read!