The Winter Briar

i. nothing matters but you

CHILDHOOD IN BROOKLYN

Night by night, you grew up with the tale of a princess who had slept for a century, freshly told by your mother on your bedside.

And every single time, as your mother takes her place beside you, you would be asked the same question: "Are you certain you don't want a different story?"

To which you'd laugh and say, "Absolutely certain."

And so you'd listen to the same story every night willingly until you fell asleep, silently hoping with your fingers crossed under your blanket that you would awake and a hundred years have passed and true love has been awaiting you.

But it's always not to be, for you would find yourself waking up every morning with a refreshed yawn.

But that's alright, you'd say to console your fairytale-starved self. After all, there was always the very next night.

—

AFTER

Respect is earned, that much is true.

And Sergeant James Barnes had a lot for his superiors, but more so for the daughter of his general. Who, as always, would be just over his shoulder; never far away but never close, either.

In bars where he and his fellow comrades gather, he'd look over his shoulder to the left and find . . . you. In diners where he'd go to order some light snacks, he'd look over to the jukebox and spot you dancing along.

And time and time again, on the times you'd catch him staring, you would do a subtle salute his way with a smile he'd gotten used to, having seen it countless times before. But he'd never get tired of it, as you would never get tired of seeing his.

Since long before he enlisted in the army, you've found solace in a friend.

It was a lovely evening, you could recall: The lights in the diner were on but it was half-deserted both inside and out. You could see a few customers inside, but they all seemed somber. Only two cars could be seen in the open parking lot space in front of the diner, and the empty spaces worked in your advantage both for the chance to rehearse your dancing and to meet one person you'd never had thought would be significant.

The night was lovely if you were to exclude the humiliation part.

You had only turned eighteen that year of 1936, and alone time was, as you had expected, rewarding.

Well, mostly because of losing the role of Cinderella to another dancer. So there you were, aggressively attempting to be graceful as if doing so would convince it to change.

Your pointe shoes were getting dirty and barely holding on, yet you kept going, spinning, spinning, spinning—

A hand caught you by your wrist just as you were about to topple over. Your head still spinning from the overexertion, your hand lingered longer than you had intended, having miscalculated the consequences.

But it didn't matter, because that was the start of everything else that followed — that one left hand that almost missed you, because he, as he had explained, was right-handed.

And right there, unsure of what to do but familiar with the gesture of those in uniform before your father and out of pure impulse, you raised your hand to your temple, forming a formal salute.

"I mean to say — er — thank you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine. But do you really believe I'm old enough to be a 'sir' deserving of a salute?"

"Oh, no! I only meant that to, uh, you know, for respect," you hurriedly said, panicked. "Which I have. For you. Like I would and do for everybody else."