a fleeting ripple

It’s Christmas morning. It’s just a regular Sunday. I’m in another loud cafe, my computer on my lap, a mug of coffee in hand. Writing, editing, having a breakfast. Coffee machines whirr in the background, a Christmas song plays in the speakers. They just burned a pastry, a smell of charred dough hangs in the air and a finger of smoke rises. People laugh and chat. I need to work, finish up the Christmas posts for work. Maybe then, the rest of the day, I can take a nice walk in

Some guitar chords echo from the speakers at the far side of the room. A raspy woman’s voice starts singing an old song. Thick, red carpets slow the footsteps, dancing around in circles in the large hotel room. The whole hotel feels like it was left untouched since the 50’s; down to the ancient mahogany furniture, heavy drapes on the windows and red-gold satin bed cover. Dim lights give a yellow tint to everything, the quiet night seeping into the room in between song breaks.

It’s chilly in the house, a hearth without its fire. The late morning sun is already up, giving wispy layers of bleak, grey light but not warmth. It doesn’t reach into the depths of the room, where shadows crawl deeper into the corners. The sky is also grey, it was supposed to bring snow. It did bring some snow last night. A handful in the crevices of roofs, a heap under the tree. Blink and you’ll miss. Maybe it’s enough to throw one sad snowball, already mushy and wet. No, i