Novembers

     Wesley meandered through the park, the plodding of his thick-soled boots muffled by the concrete. The world hung about him like a chiffon curtain that a particularly strong breeze could blow to tatters while he still stood in his black wool coat, unaffected by his circumstances as always. Mist formed droplets on his stubbly beard and dark hair to tactfully hint that both were in want of a trim. The sky was a dull, static grey that the sun made no effort to break through because it was too dim and sleepy to attempt such a thing. The fragile quiet was only broken by the persistent call of a songbird unaware that mating season had ended, and by car tires rolling damply through the shallow puddles forming on the pavement outside the rusted gate.

     As Wesley meandered on, amethyst flowers on the nearby trees faintly perfumed the air, and he paused, brow furrowed. The aroma hinted at vague memories on the edge of recollection, but they came no closer. His fists clenched in his coat pockets, and he breathed deeply in an attempt to trace the familiarity, but the last wisp of the thought had gone, leaving the sense of an empty picture frame hanging on a wall behind it. He twisted a flower stem until it came loose, and touched the star-shaped bloom delicately, admiring its silk-soft petals before gently storing it in his pocket and moving on through the mist tendrils curling around his boot laces. This was the nature of all Novembers, as far as Wesley remembered them, at least: A time for the world to fall into deathlike slumber, while he seemed to wake and become acutely aware of the things around him that before, had blindly passed him by.

     He pondered this and other inconsequential mysteries, noting that Sunday mornings were the best times for being out, because this was when all usual disturbances were either sleeping away the memories of the previous night’s party, or sitting neatly in pews, somewhat like schools of fish, getting right with God. The only exception was a lone vendor slouching in an aluminum chair behind his cart, a Styrofoam cup of black coffee steaming his nose against the damp, chilled air. The rich, smoky scent of cooked sausages almost enticed Wesley, but his empty wallet grew heavier in the pocket of his slacks, and he tread on, avoiding the disappointed salesman’s eyes. Faded, empty wooden benches, once beautiful, sat like solitary monks in the grass, which had not yet been killed by winter’s genesis, although the taste of freezing rain on the move warned of its imminent demise.

     To Wesley’s surprise, when he rounded a sharp curve in the path, he saw a girl seated alone on a bench, where before he could only see the curtain of birch trees around her. Her short red hair neatly framed her fair-skinned face, which had the tendency to make one wonder about the existence of fairies. Her dew-dropped, pale pink coat profiled her brightly against their surroundings, as if a colored picture had been unexpectedly inserted into a shadow theatre performance. Wesley felt his hands grow clammy at the sight of the petite figure reading her small book, and he was grateful that she hadn’t noticed him yet. His heart quickening uncomfortably until a horse race was thundering through his chest, Wesley approached the strange girl.

     “Hello,” he stammered slightly, almost smiling at the half-eaten pastry next to her, its raspberry filling staining the thin paper bag it rested on. “What are you reading?”

     She first looked up at him with a politely curious expression, and his breath caught at the sight of her vibrant, honey-colored eyes, which immediately roved to the worn, yellowed book in her hands.

     “I’m not entirely sure. The covers and the title page were torn off when I found it, but it’s filled with poems.” Her musical voice seemed to skip through the air for a moment after she stopped speaking, and Wesley’s eyes followed it delightedly.

     “Is the title not at the top of the pages?”

     She shook her head, a ginger curl bouncing onto her forehead. “Only the poem titles and page numbers. Odd, isn’t it?”

     As he nodded, Wesley noted that she didn’t seem to mind the conversation, spurring him to dare a bit more. “May I read with you?” He ventured.

     A smile like springtime danced on her lips. “Only if we get tea while we’re at it.”

     Astonished at the fortuitous turn of events, Wesley could hardly speak as he and the strange girl, who introduced herself as Emelia and had a rather weak handshake, left the park together. The street was slightly busier now, with pedestrians and dog-walkers striding along their typical routes, walking around the waltz-like pace of the acquaintances, sending glanced grumbles as they passed. Emelia stepped slightly in front of Wesley to indicate their next turn, and it occurred to him that her perfume smelled like the flowered tree he had pondered for so long, dusky lavender mingling with sugary honeysuckle to create the intriguing aroma.

     Their destination was a little aqua café with maps pinned to the walls and kaleidoscopic tapestries sagging from the ceiling, and they soon found themselves seated at a table tucked in a corner. Emelia’s nibbled pastry now had a napkin to rest upon next to her ceramic mug of chai tea, whose clove and nutmeg steam mingled with the ginger and orange of Wesley’s in the air above their table. Her white skirt rustling, she crossed her legs the opposite way and propped her elbow on the table, holding the book at a somewhat farsighted distance. She turned to a new page, smiled at its title, and began to read in her enchantingly sonorous voice. Wesley stared at the back of the bound pages as she painted pictures of oceans and ships and birds and lost loves, until his eyes came into focus and he realized that on the very last page, there was a note from the author, which, in the second paragraph, mentioned the title of the book Emelia held. He hid his smile behind his mug, lifting it to his mouth and letting the steam cloud his eyes as he watched the girl across the table brush her bangs back and begin the next stanza, her flowery lips shaping each word with care.

     Wesley found a new kind of month blossoming before his eyes, one in which brightness was scattered through everything, and so were kind secrets and sudden meetings, and the year no longer seemed to drag in its own monotony. It was less of a dozing death than it was an awakening at dawn to brush gold dust from one’s eyes, and see that the world was transformed overnight into something new and strangely beautiful. Wesley heard a distant rumble of thunder and looked out at the world beyond the curtained window pane, then watched the raindrop rivers race each other down the glass as the old world was washed away, and a new November was stormed into existence.