Winter feelings

Tom Campbell goes to the desk to punch his card.

“Good session, professor. Are you training for something?”, the woman says, beamily.

He flushes.

“If you want to take your training to the next level, I am a personal trainer.”

Tom looks at her. “I am fine.”

“Okay, see you next week,” eyes already on the next customer.

Tom walks to the bookstore, picks up a book, reads the back cover, puts it back. Picks up another book, same.

He walks to the coffee shop, orders a coffee, sits down by the window. Looks at the empty chair across from him. Sighs.

He takes out his phone. A picture of his wife. Smiles. Puts the phone away. Outside it is snowing.

“Sorry to bother you, but I saw you in the bookstore. I want to learn about investing.”

Tom looks up at the woman. She is young, with an accent. His eyes wander to her legs, to her arms. He looks away.

“I used to teach.”, he says.

He gives her a few book recommendations. She thanks him and leaves. Tom watches her go. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

He goes home. The doormat is crooked. He fixes it. Hangs up his coat, lines up his shoes. The apartment is quiet.

He touches the photo of his wife. Takes it down. Pauses. Puts it back.

In the kitchen, he makes a sandwich and eats it standing.

He watches sports, then a documentary, then the news. Picks up a book. Puts it down. Looks at the photo again.

Outside, snow falls.

A week later, she is in the queue to get coffee. She looks at him. He moves his hand to wave, but she is staring past him. He turns his chair toward the window. She didn’t see him.

“Tom?”, a voice from behind.

She smiles. “We met last week in the bookstore. You helped me with some books.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I have a bad memory for faces.”, he lies.

She sits down and they talk. Tom waves his hand around, animatedly. She listens with wide eyes, interjecting questions. Tom’s eyes wander to her legs. He clears his throat and looks away.

“Can I have your phone number? In case I have more questions.”, she asks.

He writes his number on a napkin, his hand shakes. She smiles and leaves with her coffee. Tom watches her go from the window. He sips his coffee. It is cold now.

A few days later he gets a message from her. The question is very difficult.

“It is too long for a message”, he writes back.

“Maybe we could meet for coffee?”, she replies.

They meet again. She sits closer to him and waves her hands around. Tom nods approvingly.

“My wife was not very interested.”, Tom says, hesitating. He cleans his glasses nervously.

She looks at him, waiting.

Tom stays silent for a long time.

“I am sorry.”, he stammers.

She puts her hand on his. “It’s okay.”, she says.

They talk for a while.

“Would you like to meet again?”, she asks, “I will call you.”

They go to dinner. She talks.

Her body sways. Tom looks at her lips, her eyes, her hands.

She touches his hand. He shakes. She looks at him, smiles and says nothing.

When the coffee arrives, their chairs are closer together. Tom’s glasses are fogged up. He cleans them, looks at her.

“My car is over there. I can give you a ride home.”, she says.

“Maybe we could …”, he starts.

“I would like that.”, she replies, smiling.

They go to his apartment. She looks around. They sit down on the couch. Tom takes her hand and she doesn’t pull away. They kiss.

He is shaking, but she is gentle. She guides him, shows him what she likes. They make love and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The morning comes and she is gone. There is a message on his phone.

“Thank you for last night. I will see you soon.”

But she doesn’t call or message.

Tom cleans the apartment, goes to the gym, bookstore, coffee shop. He waits for her message. Days pass. He can’t sleep. He tries to call her, but the phone rings and rings. No answer.

He sends a message, but no reply.

Then: “Crazy week. Can we meet?”

They meet at the café. She wears a new coat. Her nails are done. She kisses his cheek, sits down.

“There’s a seminar in Geneva,” she says. “It’s expensive. But it could change everything for me.”

Her hand rests on his arm.

“I trust you.”

He nods and stirs his coffee.

“You’re amazing,” she says, smiling.

They walk together. She laughs at things he doesn’t say.

At his house, she looks around. Touches the books and the photo on the wall.

She takes off her coat. Sits on the couch. Crosses her legs and looks at him.

He sits beside her. She leans in and they kiss. Her hand moves to his chest. His hand to her waist. They move to the bedroom.

In the morning, she is gone.

A note on the table: “Thank you. I’ll call you.”

He waits. Days pass. No call. He sends a message. No reply.

He sees her across the street, from the coffee shop. She is with another man. Younger. She wears the same coat. Her hand is on his arm and she laughs. The man smiles.

Tom watches, but she doesn’t see him. They get into a taxi and drive away.

Tom rises and walks home.

The doormat is crooked. He fixes it. Takes off his coat. Puts away his shoes.

He looks at the photo on the wall and straightens it. Goes to the kitchen and makes tea.

He sits by the window. Snow is falling and he watches it for a long time.

Then he stands up and smiles.