Dreaming Of A White Christmas

A Story by Aehr

I have never been a very big fan of cliches.

Cliches, like poofy purple dresses that are seemingly drenched in silver glitter, and blond hair in perfect curls whenever they show a prom scene in a Hollywood chick-flick, cliches like chocolate on Valentine's Day, cliches like when boys say, "I'll die for you." There's nothing about them that's not already been said or done or felt. Cliches contradict originality, and I like originality. I like surprises. I like newness.

But then there's Christmas. And Christmas is the same every year. The same pretty lights, the same red, green and white everywhere, the same expected gifts. When I was younger, my parents bought me whatever was third on my Christmas list, and whatever was fifth on my little brother's list. Mum has always been kind of methodical, and this was some cool, secret method of hers that I had found out about only two years ago, when I was in my first year of college. "It saves time. I didn't have to think much, and you got something you wanted." Yeah Mum, I didn't get what I wanted when I listed "A pony" as my #3 as an eight year old.

She got me a stuffed toy instead. A stuffed pony toy.

So Christmas has always gone the way I've expected to. I mean, my brother and I are both monotheists, and Dad believes in God but doesn't care about religion, but Mum was half a Christian before marriage (from her mother's side), and she's the maximise-celebrations-keep-traditions-alive-love-life kind of person, with inextinguishable optimism and a glowy, happy face as a result of it. So Christmas was a thing, since we were children. And for that reason, even though I hated plum cake, and I never actually understood what the point of mistletoe and the kissing was, Christmas cliches didn't seemas cliched as nostalgic and warm, and full of fond memory whenever the time of the year came around. The hatred I had for plum cake was a family joke, meeting old friends was something that never got boring or tiresome, and then there was the snow, which was my favourite part.

So what was happening this year wasn't really cool. I NEEDED my Christmas cliches this year, and they were nowhere.

I was in Mumbai, and even though I love beaches, they are NOT Christmasy. I had to clear a certain exam, for which I had only a week to study, and my degree depended on it to quite an extent, because it made for 40% of my final. Even if it didn't, that's what one of my professors said, and I absolutely could not screw this up. A week was not enough. I could not afford any mistakes. So my parents had made it clear that it was a better option to stay there and study in a modus operandi that included enough relaxation time (Mum's big on relaxation and de-stressing activities. Aromatic candles, meditation, the works). They said they'd miss me, though.

So here's how I was spending Christmas eve: I was in my favourite beach cafe sans my friends, (who had risked going back home for the holiday), the interiority of which was temporarily decorated to the theme of Christmas. Maybe it was just the universe mocking me yet again, but there were golden and red fairy lights, there were stockings, fake mistletoe and cartoon Santa Clauses. Also, there was plum cake, and when I entered the thankfully cavernous but sadly majorly empty cafe, Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You was playing softly in the backgroung, and apparently it was here to stay, because it was on repeat. The (new, hence unknown) barista seemed to like it. She couldn't stop humming the darn tune.

I walked over to the counter, and encircled by the longing and nostalgia, asked for a slice of plum cake and a latte. I sat down on an empty two-seat table by a window, and waited, whilst browsing through a magazine. I'd never before minded being lonely. I mean, family can be a little smothering sometimes, but I wanted them around, for once.

After about one and a half repeats of AIWFCIY (acronym), my horrible, horrible plum cake and amazing, amazing latte was on my table. The barista was still humming the tune, the sun had gone down but the final traces of sunset still lingered on the horizon. The scene out the window was completely in contrast to what I would have been witnessing if I was home, in my cozy little room, probably under the newly dry-cleaned red blanket that I loved so much, staring out of the window as the snow fell like a shower of swan-feathers.

My chain of thought was interrupted by a "ding!" at the door. A man entered. The other girl who was at the table about two feet away from my table looked up to see who it was but then went back to talking to her (apparent) boyfriend, in an angry tone. They were fighting over how late he had been (another cliche). Don't blame me, you can't help but overhear in a spacious empty cafe, even over the Mariah Carey.

My breath got caught up a little bit when I saw him. I can't neglect how great looking he was. He was wearing a suit, seemingly corporate-like, and black-framed spectacles. I saw from the corner of my eye as he ordered. "One espresso, please." He said, and the barista smiled and nodded. He smiled back, and looked around for a seat. Now, the whole cafe was empty, save three tables: mine, the cliched couple, and this other one with an old man reading through a newspaper. He could've easily sat down at any vacant table. But he made his way to me. The sound of his shoes on the floor was conspicuously loud.

When he came to me, he politely said, "Excuse me, mind if I sit here?"

I looked up at him. I didn't know what to say. He was an absolute stranger. But I didn't want to be rude, and he had kind eyes. So, impulsively, I said, "Sure."

He took a seat. The barista bought his coffee over, and he silently took a few sips. I wondered how he, like everyone else I knew, could so easily gulp down hot coffee. I did not know why he had chosen to sit here with me, if he was not going to make conversation. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was six thirty, but there was still a little light. I could leave.. But should I? I thought. It seemed rude. Also, the fragrance of coffee and cake, was oddly comforting. He was staring down at his phone when I decided to take a proper look at him. He had deep set eyes with thick lashes, but only after a good look did I notice that they were puffy and tired. He was much older than I was, for sure. Mature.

At some point during my careful human analysis and people-reading, he must've noticed me staring, and I must have zoned out. He said, "I'm sorry, please feel free to tell me if I'm being bothersome." and then he gave me a smile that was slightly strained.

"No.., no you're not bothersome," I laughed a little. "I was just wondering.." I didn't know how to put it. I fumbled for words.

"Wondering.. why on earth I came to sit here with you?" he finished my interrogative sentence for me. I nodded, feeling only a tiny bit bashful for whatever reason. He took in a deep breath, and suddenly, his eyes weren't smiling any more. "I know how this sounds but... I wanted to ask a favour of you."

I raised an eyebrow at him, as if to ask "What?", feeling defensive, all of a sudden. If this was one of those cheesy pick-up lines which started out really serious and solemn and ended into infuriated girls throwing coffee on boys' heads, then that was just what I would do. I mean, for starters, he wasn't even a boy. He was a man. For a man to use pick-up lines was disgusting.

He dipped his hand into his left coat pocket, and fished out a silver chain with a locket that I initially could not get a particularly good look at. Before revealing it to me, he held it on his palm and took a good look at it as a small smile danced on his lips. This time, it wasn't strained. He then kept it right in the middle of the table, and gave me the kind of look that said 'Go on, have a look'.

It was old, but extremely beautiful. The chain, though worn, was a beautiful silver, and the pendant was a little cluster of six stars in a swirly pattern. It was a pretty piece of jewellery, and it was obvious that he was giving it to me. But he had something to say before doing that.

"I don't have much time. My wife...," he took another shaky breath, while I relaxed, thinking, Wife. So he's married. So he's not hitting on me. Okay then. "She doesn't have.. time. Leukaemia, you see." His tone was explanatory, like it was necessary for him to tell me exactly what was going on, as if it was something very, very important. Which, of course it was. My heart sunk the moment he told me, and he wouldn't look me in the eye. "Two days at most. It's too painful for her. She's on machines, and she...," he said, shaking his head, "she told me she's ready." he shook his head, and smiled a little in spite of the tears that pricked his eyes. "This is her favourite piece of jewellery. I won it for her. At a carnival." he said.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if words could cover the pain he was feeling. So Ibrought my hand to his, and gave it a squeeze.

He looked down at our hands and smiled. "I'm extremely sorry-," he said, trying to compose himself, "I didn't mean to- I didn't want to bother you with my sob story." He sat up straight again, trying to put a layer in between his thoughts and me. "What I wanted was.. for you to keep it." He looked down fondly at it. "I know this is an odd request but it means too much and..," he took in a deep breath, "I don't think I'll be able to stand looking at it after she's.. after it happens." he looked up at me then, but it was clear that it wasn't an image of me that was playing in his mind. "So.. will you?"

To be honest, I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep it. It seemed to hold a lot of meaning, and it felt like a responsibility. I didn't know if I was worthy enough to have it, if I would be able to treasure it in the way it deserved to be treasured. Strange, how we can just live memories through everyday things. Jewelry, letters, music, scents and smells, tastes, certain sounds. Strange how an absolutely harmless thing such as a worn out chain with a locket can just be held against someone like a water current, pressing the memory down on him against his will, in a way that brought along with it heartbreak and hollowness of the soul.

But I couldn't say no. In fact I couldn't say anything. One look into his desperate eyes and I couldn't refuse. It was Christmas. How could I refuse? How could I deny someone happiness-or in his case, not happiness but relief from the pain of a wound, that would never turn into a scar because there would always be things scraping it, making him bleed over and over again? How could I say no?

So I nodded, and slipped the chain into my jeans-pocket. The man looked at me, and nodded. "Thank you," he whispered, and then got up to pay for his coffee.

Before he left the cafe, he looked at me one last time. I got up and hugged him, not knowing what else to do. "You'll be alright," I said into his ear.

"Thank you," he said, "I wish you a lifetime of happiness. Merry Christmas."

And then he walked out. I never saw him again.

I didn't even know the man's name, and neither did he know mine. But we were now connected, in some unnoticeable, nameless corner of human history. I know I didn't do much by accepting the locket. I didn't solve any of his problems, I didn't bring his dying wife health, I didn't save him from the grief that would follow after his wife's demise. But I did do something. I had taken a rock of his mountain of troubles away. I had given him a little relief. I prayed for him to recover, I prayed for him to be alright. And I thanked him. I thanked him for sharing something that meant so much, with me. I thanked him for making my Christmas feel more like Christmas than it would have at home.

© 2015 Aehr

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Reviews

Woah, Rhea! I am totally digging this story of yours! I was so engrossed, each detail described felt so realistic. I love the development of both your characters- how well chosen your diction was for their actions and dialogue. The theme of clichés and how it bound the story together was amazing. Great piece!