Winter Twist

I was at my office, drumming my fingers along the desk. As I gazed out the window, I laughed as a lady missed the warning sign and lost her footing on the ice over fresh snow. She kicked air until she landed on her back. I waved Esmeralda over to catch a laugh. She gave me a neutral glance. A man helped the woman to her feet. Christmas music played. I returned to my office, plopped myself into my chair, and ran my fingers through my thick, dark hair. My thoughts drifted to holiday wishes. I loved Christmas and hoped to unwrap someone on Christmas morning. I decorated my desk with a small Christmas tree and refilled my candy cane dish a few times.

I sold car insurance for Progressive.

As a new college grad, the money was enough. I supervised a team of people who fielded calls from customers.

We decorated the building with lights and a giant Santa Claus in the lobby.

When I wasn’t thinking about work, I was fantasizing about Esmeralda. She was a childhood friend and a colleague. But that’s where the relationship stopped. Friends. Esmeralda lived a block away, and we’d trade baseball cards and throw baseballs through windows on late summer nights. But in high school, she wore skirts or tight jeans. She took care of her hair and wore lipstick. She was the same, yet so different. Her beauty intimidated me, but our friendship calmed me from the chaotic world. We haven’t been as close since the ninth grade. Sure, we talk about work at work. But we weren’t close anymore.

I wasn’t rash, but this time, I had no choice.

She had to know.

Esmeralda had a dark skirt with thigh-high opaque stockings. I lowered my gaze and noticed black heels cupped her heels like a princess that I wished so lost, and I found it so that I could place it on her foot. But it’s not like I was looking at her. It’s not like I knew anything about her.

Esmeralda’s birthday falls on this Friday. I made calls and arrangements. Esmeralda knew me as a friend.

A shy friend.

I was the friend she didn’t know was in love

with everything about her.

But it’s not like I thought about her all the time. I took a break to let my mind drift to dreams of x-rated fantasies of stealing a cop car and getting away from a high-speed police chase.

The feel of only us knowing and telling our grandkids after the statute of limitations expired.

After work, I zipped my coat to my chin and wiggled my fingers into my black gloves. I checked the locks and exited. I lived a mile away from the office. The white flakes started falling, and the weatherman called for more. Christmas lights zigzagged through cycles of colors, and people in cafes laughed over coffee. I noticed small things. Cheerful things. I saw what I’d always wanted in the happiness of others. I examined my love for Esmeralda. It made sense. Nothing without it made any sense. At my apartment, I kicked off the snow, unlocked the door, and placed my shoes beside the door. The oven was baking, but I didn’t bake. I shut and locked the door. I asked for the baker to make themselves known, and I moved into the living room.

The pumpkin spice candle had shifted flames and glasses with a bottle of red wine.

A figure moves through into the living room.

She wore black socks that reached her thighs.

She’s Esmerelda.

“Where are your clothes?”

“Did you want me to put them back on?” she said, sucking a candy cane.

“Yes. I mean, no,” I said. “I mean, I think I’m supposed to say no.”

“Are you?” Esmerelda wrapped her long, red hair around her neck.

I sighed. “How’d you get in here?”

She closed the distance between us and leaned in. “You know you want me here.”

“That’s…” Goosebumps poked through my skin. “I was going to surprise you on your birthday tomorrow.”

“And I’m surprising you on your,” Esmeralda said, biting her lower lip.

“You remembered?”

“Happy birthday.” Esmerelda winked.

“You’re the answer,” I said.

She blushed and rolled her eyes. “We’re the answer. I’ve loved you since we were kids.”

“I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” I said.

“Nothing will,” Esmeralda said. “As long as you don’t laugh at my mother again.” We laughed hard.

“I’ll pick you up if you fall,” I said, cupping her cheeks.

We spent seventy years of birthdays together.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

Website: https://drinkcoffeewrite.online/

Twitter: AC0040