Winter Concerto

Her breath vaporizes the air for a moment, then it reforms into matter. The cacophony of laughter and anecdotes from her friends surround her, but to her, it's all the ambiance of her brilliant milieu. The coffee shop is relatively new, almost a brasserie for caffeine and sugar addicts, with beautiful wood grafting on the inner wall, and a sea of grass and herbs on the other, creating a scene almost as sweet as the baked snacks they offered.

She keeps drowning in the beauty of the misty morning, as her mind drifts into the currents of a reverie. The cold she had always hated. But over the years, springs haven't been beautiful nor have the summers been pleasant. Autumn brought some solace, with its gorgeous colors. 

She remembers the boy who broke her heart in the paradise of flowers the native of her town called a park. The first love, the one she loved without restrictions, the one she dedicated herself to without reason. The colors of the beautiful little pods of nectar were ravishing at full bloom, like a bright melody, slowly moving on the reverberating keys of a piano. Slow, but sensual. Bright but somewhat melancholy. Her eyes could only drink the moment for a little while as she waited for her lover, almost dancing to their harmony. After he left, her eyes were amaurotic from her wounded heart. The melody faded and all she could hear was the serenade of her tears to her submerging heart. She would spend the next summer and winter trying to extricate it from the deluge of sorrow. The crescendo of her dreams of a life with him demolishing had deafened her; the ballads of a six stringed guitar had ceased. This silence would be life now, and adapting to the hollowness would be a part of her monotonous routine.

The mocha almost slips from someone's hands, people make faces and comment on the owner's clumsiness, but unfortunate was her mind, that couldn't stop its fall into a state of oneirataxia. She feels this urgent need to hug someone, like she always had, more crucial than breathing but she drinks it down with a sip of her espresso.

She always had her mother, who withstood the fierce tempest of life like a mountain. She could always find solace in her shadow, always nourish herself in the fruits of her love. She had felt the slow rhythm of contrabass, slowly rising and falling, in the arms of her mother. The warmth had always comforted her. On other days she had heard a string quartet in her smile, finding and filling her soul with fire and happiness. She stood perplexed then when the conductor changed the key of her song. The quartets and contrabass faded, and a dark, damp grand piano filled it up, accompanied by a triplet of violas. The disease was festering, and age wasn't helping. Soon, during one of those clear starry summer nights, she would lose her too. By the bedside, she felt the last five words echoing like the rhythmic and haunting harmony of a parlor grand, "I love you my Darling." Ironical, the pain love causes. 

The mist lingers like a fading string section, playing the chords adagio. The slow, barely noticeable biting breeze breathes like a humble cello. Her heart fills the rest of the space with the arpeggios of a staccato embellishing a solitary violin. The winter never seemed so beautiful before. The melodies blend into the song of a lorn heart, somehow desolate and yet magnificent. She brings her arms around her, letting them wrap her the best they can. Someone asks: "What's wrong?". The question comes as a wail, shattering the dimension her mind had slipped into. She turns as the instruments stop, capsized by the beauty of her smile. No melody could do justice to those bereft yet shimmering eyes, no harmony could capture the allure of her smile, crafted by her gorgeous lips.

"I'm just a little cold.."