What Gets Wrapped Up in a Coat

She double-checks the door's locked and steps out into the throng of people. She pulls her coat tight around her. It's her favourite one. The plum wool one with the bronze buttons. We found it at a vintage shop out in the Midlands on the hottest day of the year. She was sweating by the time she'd wriggled in and back out of it, her cheeks flushed. The place had smelt like a mix of incense and a grandmother's cupboard. The coat still smells like that no matter how many times it's been dry cleaned. We'd gone to lunch at The Farmhouse Restaurant after with its chickens in the yard and famous lunch buffet. Now there's a place you could die happy. She insisted on carrying the coat in, draping it over the back of her chair as if it were a royal cloak. I would've left it in the car with the retro tea set and vase she'd found. I'd had two helpings of the roasted lamb and rosemary potatoes with that minty pickle stuff that went so well with the meat. I can still taste whisps of it, lingering on the edge of my tongue like a forgotten word. She had the chicken salad. I remember the colour of those tangerine nasturtiums on her plate. There was another flower on her salted caramel cheesecake. That one she put behind her ear.

And here we are now, snow threatening any moment and that coat keeping her warmer than I could. I see more collars than faces on the street as passersby duck their heads against the cold. I keep my eyes on her red hair. The pavement's crowded but no one bumps me. I stick to the left where the buildings and the tarmac meet with the cigarette butts and crumpled cans and neon flyers advertising car washes, beauty parlours and one even an exorcism service. I'd keep that one if I could. I pass the Post Office where no one sends letters anymore except for the children. They still write to Santa Claus. She read me an article about it, over breakfast and tea served in that retro set with the ridiculously small handles I could barely hold. Just like every Sunday. She said we should donate to one of those local shelters where they put together Christmas parcels for kids. She cleared her throat and sniffed and I knew she was pushing down a stab of pain. I should've taken her hand then. Why did I miss so many opportunities to just reach out and touch her? My eyes trail down to the litter and more cigarette butts. Are there still this many smokers around, or is it one person chain-smoking on their way home? Smoking kills people. So does stress. Driving to the corner shop to buy 85% dark chocolate in the middle of a storm kills too. I avoid the shop windows and everything they don't reflect back. There's a pile of dishwater grey blankets on the floor now. They move and cough and hack. A wet sound that makes you wrinkle your nose and fight down your own gag response. No one turns towards the rumpled person buried beneath them. On a street with thousands of faces, this one goes unseen. Oh, how I relate. I want to bend down and make contact with them. Touch their stony skin and tell them it's okay. I see them. But what good would it do even if I could? I turn my face like the others. A drizzle starts and people's paces quicken as if we're all in a stream fuelled by the fresh rain. Umbrellas puncture the air and then bloom with a "whoosh". She doesn't see me as she ducks into the café with its neon coffee cup signage.

I've never been in. It opened the week after the 'we really need chocolate for this movie' run. I slip inside. Voices blend into rumbles and the sound of the street fades away. The coffee machine spews out its sharp steamy protests as more and more people huddle inside to escape the weather. Somewhere a waiter drops a tray. I scan the faces I do not need to remember and spot her near the back. A gangly 20-something with Doc Martens and a faded Nirvana hoodie is taking her order. I guess grunge is back. Or maybe it never left? Whoever is in charge of the music missed the memo. It's smooth jazz all the way in here. I hate jazz. I want to bite my lip or scratch my beard or order a coffee, Americano double shot, no sugar. Instead, I watch her. She doesn't watch anyone. Just sits looking into the space between herself and the table. The waiter returns and puts her drink down. I know it's a decaf flat white with almond milk. There's a pale biscuit resting on the saucer but she doesn't notice it. Not much of a sweet tooth these days. She rests her hands on the edge of the cup but doesn't lift it. Her ring is still on. With its filigree band and modest diamond. Such a small delicate thing holding so many promises. They're broken now. Did I break them? Not on purpose, right? They shattered with the windscreen and my bones. Tibia. Multiple vertebrae. Both wrists. Clavicle. A few ribs. Let's not forget the skull fracture. That really did it. Turns out calculus isn't the only that can do your head in. I lift my fingers but don't actually touch my brow. Someone is calling out a coffee order for a double-shot vanilla latte. A baby in a pram screams as his toy falls to the floor. The kid is bundled up like a snowman. Seems everyone has been watching the weather closely. I turn back to her and her coat, still wrapped around her. I move closer, closer than I've been since. She closes her eyes and I know it's then that she sees me. In her memories when I'm full colour. Vivid. Alive.