(Submitted to the round 8 of 3 minute fiction, NPR)
She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally,
decided to walk through the door. It was almost nine in the evening and her late
afternoon shift at the pub had ended more than an hour ago. She had planned on
catching a movie on the television tonight. Now she was definitely going to be
late for that. As she was hurriedly untying her apron, the door opened and a
small group walked into the empty local pub;Their gloved hands left clear
prints on the glass pane of the door. Through the hand prints she saw that the
world outside was covered in white. A blizzard had started this afternoon and
showed no signs of relenting.
Her shift this afternoon was unusually quiet. To pass the
time she had started reading a book. Through the course of evening as she got
engrossed in the book, the cold night grew colder and the blizzard grew
stronger. The manager's yell jolted her,” What are you looking outside for,
heh? There are people waiting at the table!” She looked at the table where the
group had seated themselves. There was not a single regular in that group. With
some luck, she thought, this may be over soon; besides it was snowing hard and
she would miss the movie anyway. She even smiled at the prospect of a good tip.
A guy in the group caught her smile in the kitchen mirror.
She came up to the group to take their order. He noticed
that she was not very slight of frame. Her collarbones were prominent, made more so by a pendant that hung
in the hollow of those. She wore a red blouse, which complimented her curves.
Up close, her face appeared too severe for a woman. Her hair was a deep
chestnut color and it was tied back in a severe bun; a few strands escaped and
fell on her tired face. The stray strands and the courtesy smile she wore
defrayed the severity of her face and he found it hard to look away. As she was
serving, the rather cute, albeit stubby, guy with the mischievous smile and
curious eyes caught her attention. Or was it that he was noticing her, caught
her attention? Whichever it was, she felt warmed to her toes.
The group lounged around the empty pub for several hours
and ordered quite a few rounds of beer. She even flirted a bit, or so she
thought. It was all very entertaining. She did not seem to mind that luck was
not favoring her much today. Much
later in the evening there was the usual clamor over splitting bills and
calculation of tip amount in hushed tones; the night was finally over. Suddenly
she noticed that the guy, whom she had become quite fond of over the evening,
scribbling something on a piece of napkin. Curiosity welled up in her. As soon
as the group left, she nervously walked to the table. The group did leave a
substantial tip. But today she was not interested in the tip. Making sure that
she was alone in the deserted pub, she quickly picked up the crumpled the
napkin, her heart hammering against her chest.
She saw scratches on the napkin, indicating furious but
futile efforts of scribbling. Clearly the pen did not work in the cold and
effort only tore the napkin. As she straightened the crumpled napkin trying to
make sense of the torn piece of tissue, she frantically looked towards the
door. But the frost was already covering up the hand prints on the glass pane.
(Photograph, courtesy my father, Abhijit Bhattacharya)
