the long forgotten

i : the great perhaps

The breeze is kind on nights like these. It kisses on my skin and trails chills along the crevices of my bones. Esmeralda is patiently waiting outside, beneath blankets of snow and leaned against the metal bars that separate buildings from pavements. With my worn leather boots clicking on the cleared steps, I see her the way she always is. Shivering but motionless. The thought of such a loyal friend stirs up happiness within me -- though I'm afraid to do so.

Am I happy?
Do I want to be?

"Hello, Esme," I sigh.

She doesn't reply, of course.
She's a bike.

The keys freeze my already frozen fingers -- turning them bluer than birds of spring and bluer than springs of relaxation. With a push and twist, Esmeralda growls a much-too-rusty grunt than I am used to. It should be concerning, but it somehow manages to comfort my discomforted self. The snow falls from the right side of the tattered seat once Esme leans the other way. When the leaves will begin to grow again and the snow melts into winter's debris -- I will miss the powder falling onto my boots.

But not much for now.

"Agh, fuck."

I kick it off. These boots, just like Esme, mean a lot to me. They should. Shoes should mean something to their bearers. They follow them everywhere, experiencing hardships along with you. But I am privileged to even own a pair. For there are some who travel without; there are some who don't have someone / something else to share the pain with. With a push off the ground and both feet steadied on the pedals, I pat Esme on her faded-red side and set off for another meaningless adventure.

---

Fog surrounds the neon-lit diner. It's half past eleven and I'm early for my shift. It's the usual. Nora waves her small hand at me with her usual smile. Her attitude really is something valued by everyone at the diner. It is a fresh and much-needed change -- giving everyone hope that despite the cold weather, warmth is always somewhere. That there has to be warmth when there is coldness. "Hey, Arv!" she chimes.

"Hi, Nora," I reply with a warm grin.
"What's shakin'? How's Esmeralda?"
"Like she always is. Rusted, noisy, old,"

"I'd appreciate it if you guys would stop talking about me already," jokes Al from behind the bar. Al is around sixty-ish, though he likes to forget all that. I'm glad to say that the most adventurous person I know is a sixty-ish year old who has more grey on his head than any other colour. Nora laughs, lightly slapping me on the arm and motioning me towards the kitchen. It's rather empty tonight. Not as many drunk and sad people tonight.

Perhaps Christmas Eve really is celebrated by the confused as well. Well, except for me.

"You should go on home, Nora. Your grandmother is probably waiting for you."
"Ah, but my shift isn't over yet--"
"--don't worry. I've got it. Besides, it's Christmas Eve! Tell Gran not to drink so much drugstore wine,"

She gives me the OK before a timid "thanks" and leaves the diner.

I sigh, for as many times as there are fingers on both my hands. Nora is the kind who has the red string tied in her hair like ribbons holding them up. This means that she is only a minor victim of fate. If untied it'd merely leave her uncomfortable. But after many thoughts swim in and out of my head, the bell "ding!"s once more and I jolt my head upwards to the ringing. In comes a girl who I've known ever since I began working here.

Red strings are latched everywhere onto her. She's more of an accessory to it than it is to her. They pierce deep into her skin where piercings or tattoos are not - the thickest string of all tugging at her right ear.

"Guess you're early tonight again, Arvo. Where's Nora?" she asks.
"Left to see Gran. You're not celebrating like everyone else?"
"Of course I am! With you and Al over there. Because I would totally spend Christmas in an old diner that reeks of Herpes." she says, her tone slurred and sarcastic.

I chuckle as Al rolls his old eyes.

"Nah, dumbfuck. I'm homeless. What did you expect? For me to celebrate with my 'friends' from the soup kitchen?"
"Alright there, Inga. Shut up and order up."
"Ya don't even hafta ask."
"The usual," I remark, mimicking her voice and grabbing a glass bottle of lime soda from the fridge and chicken pie from inside the glass display. I slide the tin foil bowl onto a plate and place them right before her.

"I don't understand how you like your pie cold. And how you like the lime soda. It tastes like diabetes in a bottle,"
"Mrmfffrmmr-what-mrmmf-ever-mrrfm,"

She is digging into her pie like a pig would.
We continue to chat about various things before another set of red strings pop into the diner. His face is not a familiar one. It is dark and old, but not Al old. It's old in a way that it is engraved from experience, with wrinkles that tell stories even if they don't speak. The man is dressed in a grey suit that looks much-too-expensive for diner-hopping. His arm is bent with a smartphone cradled in his hand and set next to his ear.

"Look -- if you proceed on your own, you're fired." he argues with whomever sits on the other end of the line.

---
hahahahahahahssh nope hi i'm tassy
and ducks
and this sucks
and idk if i'll ever update again hahhha