How about that weather?

It was cold. But not too cold. In fact, the weather was no concern to little Roxane de Bergerac. She was as happy as a clam, if clams were happy. You see, my dear readers, she was finally free to do whatever she wanted whenever she pleased. The first thing she would do was order a root beer float at the local diner. If she only knew where that diner was.

It took a great deal of walking and tripping over the cracked cement, burrowing the strong scent of moist leaves into the soft folds of her memory for a lifetime. She didn’t care that mud splashed onto her pure white stockings as she leaped into puddles. She didn’t care that those little annoying Velcro plants were sticking to her dark red coat as she brushed past forgotten gardens. And she didn’t care that people out there could possibly care about her. Her mind was set on that diner.

Perhaps saying that it took a great deal of walking was not very accurate, and I apologize for that. She reached the diner within seconds, although they might have seemed a century to her. Little Roxane, with the determination of a certain well-known train, pulled the glass door as much as she could. Fortunately, an old man had decided to leave the diner at the same time as her arrival.

The heels of her Mary-Janes clicked with each step as she ran to the finish line and swiveled around and around. Elbows to table and chin into palms, she looked down at the counter. At the wide curving watermarks that were left after the last washcloth. Please sir, she would like a root beer float. And he asked how much money she had. Her fingers, after fumbling through her pockets, revealed two quarters.

She heard two women discussing something about someone, but she couldn’t hear them very clearly. These were Jennifer and Anne. Jennifer had terribly bony rigid hands. Anne had a habit of scratching her scalp constantly. She kept complaining about how cold it was. And her nose was frozen. However, being inside didn’t help one bit. You know that feeling, readers. Jennifer wanted to stay over at Anne’s for a while. And Anne could not refuse. Although, her husband would be infuriated in his own calm way.

Her husband was currently in the post office across the street. He had a package, but an observer would not be able to tell what kind of package it was. It was simply a package. Addressed to someone out there who was either expecting it or wasn’t. With much hesitation he handed it to the fat lady at the counter.

This lady did not think she was very fat at all. As she grabbed the package from this stranger’s remarkably smooth hands, she was reminded of someone from her past, someone she had worshiped night and day. She used to be thin then, but not very pretty. She would sit outside his room and listen as his voice resonated through that part of the hall, flowing through her. She would write down what he was wearing each day. And she would hope to dream about him that night.

It would have been nice for her if she had ever entered his dreams. At the same time, he didn’t seem like the type of person who would dream. He had kept his job for quite a while now, without making any mistakes, and was enjoying a double espresso at a neighboring café. It was difficult to enjoy. Especially with such boring people around. And when would he ever read all those reports? When did he have the time for anything? His fingers ran across the smoothness, the ripples of glass-like material, until they found a crack. He admired her shoes. Her being the young woman in the sheer black tights and oxford heels.

After picking up her iced tea she suddenly regretted her decision to buy something cold. She regretted her decision to regret buying something cold. She used the little pearls of water, or as she would have called it 6 years ago, condensation, to rub off the violet marker stain on her finger. How rough the ridges were! The place where her pencils had created calluses for years. The color did not fall between the ridges.

She did care if the water stained her shoes, so she stepped around the puddles. Her steps were uneven, however. She believed the leaves on the ground to be particularly crunchy and stepped on each big one she could find. The folded ones were the best. She would have to stop and then take the time to carefully choose her next step. This caused for a lot of glances from other people. She did care but she knew they understood. Or that’s what she thought.

You know what I mean, readers. Some of those leaves were quite disappointing. Her foot would fall with a soft tap and there would be silence. They wouldn’t follow what she expected. They wouldn’t conform. It didn’t take very long to get back home. Whatever home was. If it were indeed her home, after all. The first thing she would do was that research paper she had been meaning to work on. As if that would ever happen. She was as distraught as those days where you’re stuck in a café and everyone around you seems not to exist, if days had emotion. That chilled white color in the sky that she used to love was of no concern to Ms. De Bergerac. It wasn’t that cold. It was just cold.