“Can you smell the winter?” she says.

I take a deep breath. November’s almost over. It hasn’t started snowing yet. “Well it’s gotten colder now, hasn’t it?” I ask.

She tilts her glass to one side and then the other. We’re standing on the balcony. I never thought she’d be one to avoid her own party. “I could always smell the seasons. Not like how you smell the rain” she nods her head sideways. “It’s hard to explain but I can feel when they’ll arrive and when they’ll leave” she continues.

She stares me in the eyes. Her eyes are surprisingly blue. “Seasons die one after another” she adds. Her voice quivers and so does my heart. There’s sadness hidden somewhere between her words.

They’re playing jazz inside. I can hear the music calling me. I’ve worked hard to get myself in this suit. “Do you wanna go for a dance?” I ask.

She looks down at her glass, takes one last sip and places it on the railings, next to mine.

I close in on her, dip my finger in the wine. “You know, if you lightly rub your finger along the rim, you can hear a tune” I say as I try desperately to make her wine glass sing. She laughs. “Is that your way of welcoming winter?” she asks. I smile as I take her hand in mine. I dream of these days.

Your smile, moon light;
Jazz song, slow dance,
the warmth caught between my fingers.

Oh, did I mention your smile?



Seasons die one after another | November 23