A warm reflection

She was fair in every way. Her eyes light blue, her skin pale, her hair blond. She had the patience to make hash browns right – each bite crisp and soft together - and care in her hands when she lifted the plate to where I sat. When the last morsel had been snared against the tines of my fork, I stood to leave. I could no longer prolong my presence at the counter with slow bites and small sips of soda, with long stares out the window. It was time to be elsewhere.

“Till next time,” she said to me, as I put on my coat and cap – pulling on my woolen mittens against the sharp cold wind.

The line from Louis Prima came to mind. “There’ll be no next time,” I said out loud. “Not like this time,” I added into the silence.

She looked at me and I imagined agreement in her eyes like a warm and faded quilt. I would have stayed, but I pulled the door and then I turned to look at her one more time. “Looks like it might have warmed up,” I said mostly to the wind, but of course it hadn’t. She was steaming milk for some other customer. But it would come spring, I thought, stepping out onto the empty sidewalk. Maybe I would order hash browns next time. Maybe she would wrap her eyes against my cold-nipped, ruddy cheeks. Did I already say that she was fair in every way?