There is a distinct bite to the wind making the autumn gales that stole the leaves off of the trees seem like a series of summer breezes. We stand, hand in hand, ruddy cheeks and red noses making us look almost comical, picking our way, sometimes carefully, other times downright recklessly through the icy streets. My battered trainer soles have no grip and every time I slip, out of his peripheral vision, he tightens his arm to pull me back up.
We meander along, through the estate, past mothers shouting for their children to come home, through the dwindling daylight, past the bare bushes where the blood-red holly berries that cling on are covered in a thin sheet of crystallised snow - crisp to the touch and melts into tiny puddles in the centre of our palms. I unhook my fingers from his and tuck them into my pockets.
The door swings open and warm, sweet air blasts us in the face. The unique Christmas smell of cinnamon and peppermint hot chocolates, that haunts the place, draws us in like moths to a flame. We miss the tutting of some of the patrons, something about young fools and letting in the cold, as we waltz past, their negativity absorbed by the magic of unlikely young love blossoming in the depths of winter.
I clutch my takeaway cup, laughing as burnt myself on the steam. I'm off-balance as he pulls me into our favourite side booth, and I land on my bum in an unceremonious heap. Looking dishevelled, we fall into a comfortable, slightly awkward silence, a hallmark of our 'not-dates', staring at the plastic lids and trying to make out the indent of words on the surface.
I hadn't been away for any more than five minutes but that was all he needed. In his wake he left his unfinished coffee, still steaming at the opening and a napkin, and in his unique rounded script:
I'm sorry, I love you.
He wouldn't look at me as we brushed shoulders in the crowded corridors, eyes trained on the faded carpet squares, on the endless sea of tired faces, on the battered poster displays on the wall. On anything but me. Practical classes were painfully awkward when we kept bumping into each other and dropping glassware, brushed aside with hurried apologies and minimal eye contact. Every time our elbows bumped as we scribbled notes, hands clammy and mind wandering, a cruel reminder of what could have been.
Do you ever wonder 'what if'?
I wanted to scream it at him, shake the answer out of him as if that would make it all better. It wouldn't, but, it would work wonders for my unvented anger.
Our last year filled with classrooms and school bells is over in a blur of wistful glimpses of the future and heartfelt pangs of nostalgia for our golden years, stored in snapshots, aged by the hands of time. There were too many tears, clapping hands, joyous shouts, the sun beating down on our backs as we closed one chapter of the book only to open another. No one came to snap cheesy pictures and I didn't look back, not after I stepped out of the gates for the last time, not even when they shouted for me.
It is that time of year again: when we make paper snowflakes to hang from the rafters and play the same songs on repeat, enough to drive you mad and delete all of them. And then remember how much you love the classics, like 'Last Christmas'. The familiar peppermint and cinnamon, has become a staple now, on all my clothes and my hair, it's not all bad. After all, I smell like the drinks that I love. Life at the café is peaceful, the same orders from the same regulars come floating in and the same drinks are poured and sent back out. He's never came back though, ever since my first shift when he walked in and stared at me like a deer caught in headlights before slamming the door so hard, in his attempt to escape, that the bell broke.
I'm frothing milk and humming along to 'Last Christmas' when the bell rings. "Be with you in two!" I shout past my shoulders as I set the milk down and fill up the cappuccino. Annie takes the cup and shuffles back to her usual corner seat, by the window, to watch the first snowflakes of the year fall and disappear into the ground. The doorbell rings again. Familiar rounded script stares back at me on a napkin.
I love you, I meant it.
I dropped the whisk and fling myself under the counter, out the door and into fading daylight, clutching the napkin to my chest.