Melancholy & Rose

Charles sat in his armchair, a few feet away from the crisp fire as the autumn wind roared past his window, threatening to shake the neglected wooden sill (that reminded Charles he needed to call a repair man, because he knew Graham never would). Graham had gone back to visit his parents for the weekend after spending the week in a drunken stupor and packing two or three bottles of whiskey in his trunk when he thought Charles wasn't looking—he was.  Graham said that he'd bring him something back, and Charles told him he didn't need anything.

Charles glanced out the window and saw a man struggling against the wind— coat fluttering with the current of the strong breeze— and clutching his hat with one hand. With the other, he held a bouquet of roses against his breast. He trudged along the sidewalk, each step more deliberate than the last— so determined to get where he was going.

Charles tore his gaze away from the window as he felt something prick at the corner of his eye. For a moment, he could have sworn that he saw himself in the man's place but was overwhelmed with the fear of being received by no one. The unbearable sound of the clock, becoming louder than anything else in his home, drove him to  look back to the window— where he saw a woman opening a door to the man. With flushed cheeks, she brought a hand to her face, smiled, nearly cried, and then ushered the man inside gleefully.

The door slammed shut with excitement, eagerness, and longing, but Charles could not hear it across the street and through the clock's ticking. Eyes lingering on the empty street, Charles stood up to brew himself another pot of tea to keep his body warm—  like he would on any other cold fall day.