Paper and Chocolates

It was a long walk home. But I'm used to long walks.

I stared into the sky. Saw the gentle sweep of a brush, spreading grey watercolour over the pearly white landscape, every speck of light as soft and tender as baby's skin, lustre dust gleaming in the cracks of the sky.

A cold raindrop landed in my mass of frizzy brown hair and slid down my honey-beige, freckled face. More came, splattering across red sweater and jeans. A raindrop landed on my eyelashes, hanging just in view of my large brown-ebony eyes, before falling like a star. I placed one foot in front of another, admiring the way the rain beaded on my slip-on white canvas shoes.

I'm blessed and cursed with hypersensitivity. I can sense the rustle of every blade of grass. I can hear every shift of the wind. Rain smells as powerful as spaghetti sauce on the stove, and the crackles of fire; each is distinct, but unified in harmony. That's why I write.

I panic because of the time, but then relax because I don't have to worry about time like I did back when I still lived with...them. I couldn't even think of it. I hitch my canvas knapsack farther up my back, feeling the collection of notebooks bounce around inside it, and begin the long walk home.

My apartment door is painted bright red. Inside is my simple, but cosy, two-room home. The kitchen is warm - birch cabinets with a slate-coloured stove and island to the left, a simple dining table to the right. It too is made of birch, with its top the same colour as the stove. Strings of lights line the ceiling, a milky glow over the grey-blue walls. A pendant light hangs over the table. Shelves overflowing with plants, statuettes and trinkets hang off the walls.

I peer through the doorway into the other room. The walls are the same colour and hung with the same lights. There's a daybed to the side that's right next to my desk, which is pushed up in a corner, covered in books (though with an ironically placed half-empty bookshelf over it). A console table has a printer and two charging stations, touching corners with a piano.

Friday is looking up, I think as I walk into my kitchen, smiling. It's the last day before break. My Mac is soon on the table, whirring in anticipation. There's a certain amount of grace and power to typing. Your fingers rumble across the keys like bulls charging in unison, while the clockwork of the rhythm brings an iron-wrought story together.

Currently, my tale is of a girl away from her parents, sitting in an apartment building waiting for the clock to chime 8:45 so she can see her friend in the snow. But who shall her friend be? I wonder, then stare at the clock on the wall. It's feathered with post-it notes.

Jimmy.

I'm going to see Jimmy.

I hurry to the door, take the red sweater off its hook and fling it on, then run out into the catwalk in my apartment hall. I tap my watch. Light illuminates its face, telling me it's 8:40 PM. There are no messages from...them. Good.

That gives me enough time to be able to take a stroll and enjoy the flakes as they fall. A light layer of virgin snow is already on the ground. Clumps of snow are pushed aside by my feet as I ascend the stairs to the rooftop.

When I get there, an old man is hunched in the snow. He isn't cold, as he has on his houndstooth overcoat and newsboy cap. His hair is the same colour as the snow. He doesn't look up until I cross the brick roof to the other side and sit down next to him, brushing a clear spot.

He looks up slowly when I approach and smiles. His face is speckled, and even in old age, he's handsome. Full cheekbones with skin stretched tight under them when he smiles, ivory-coloured teeth, and dark eyes that disappear into his face when he smiles - dark eyes like the chocolates he consumes constantly from a bag like the one he's holding now. When he speaks, it's in a bullfrog rasp, but with a beautiful accent to it, like smoke and perfume.