The Christmas Season
I have always held Christmas dear to my heart. Even when I was little, the smell of cookies baking in the oven made a feeling of happiness and excitement swell within me. The decorating of the tree and the playing of Christmas tunes playing on the radio.
I, Kate Henderson, love Christmas yet this year was little different.
It was two weeks before Christmas, and I was still hustling to finish my assignments for my job. I became thrilled at the idea of vacation. My other co-workers already were on break, either enjoying a walk on the beach in Jamaica, or staying home with family. I didn’t have many family members close to me.
My parents were in a nursing home, and I visited them every Christmas Eve. The sad thing was they didn’t know me very well. You see, they have a strong case of forgetfulness. Some days they can’t even remember the nurse’s name. The first time my Mother looked at me and said, “Who are you, honey?”, I went home and cried till I fell asleep.
Anyways, after work, I decided to get a cup of coffee. I was walking down Forest Avenue in the bustling city of New York. Many people rushed past me . . . some bumping into me without a sorry.
The crisp air filled my lungs almost hurt them, but the freshness of it was rejuvenating.
I went into Starbucks ready to get my usual latte; no milk, little cream, and a hint of cinnamon. My instructions hardly compared to other people’s.
I stood in line waiting patiently. Suddenly someone ran into me with a cup of coffee caressed in his hand. It’s hot liquid splattered all over my jacket.
“Watch it, please, ” I said annoyed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss, ” he said.
My eyes finally looked from my ruined jacket.
It was a nice-looking young man . . . maybe my age. Very tall, shady blondish-brown hair and blue eyes. He had freckles dotted across his nose.
“It’s fine I guess, ” I said, completely forgetting my coat cost $200.
“Hey, let me buy you another one, ” he offered.
“Okay, ” I replied.
He went to order me one and I thought, ” He has manners . . . surprising.”
Before you knew it, we were sitting at a booth talking.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“Ick . . . I don’t like sitting in front of a desk all day, ” he said while wrinkling his nose.
“How about you?” I inquired, taking a sip of coffee. Snow began to slowly fall outside which created a pretty scene.
“I design houses kind of, ” he answered with a glance at me.
“What do you mean by kind of? ”
“I work at a construction plant. I draw plans, but no ones uses them. It’s like a hobby to me, but I want it to actually become something real. ”
“Maybe it will, ” I said encouragingly.
He smiled at me.
We talked for what seemed like hours. Our conversation went from work to gingerbread houses etc.
When I was about to leave he said, “What’s your name?”
“Kate, ” I said.
” Mine is Matt, ”
“Could I give you my phone number? ” he asked, standing up from the booth.
“Yeah, of course.” I started writing it on a napkin I had in my purse.
“See you around, and . . . maybe I can design a gingerbread house for you,” he said with a slight laugh.
“Sure, ” I said smiling.
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