The Falling Leaf

The smell hits me first. Yesterday morning mirrors today's in nearly every way, except today is the first day of fall, and the atmosphere in Witch’s Brew tangibly reflects the shift.

Where lavender and fresh lemonade defined the summer, I now catch whiffs of pumpkin and apple cider. Wafting cinnamon gives the shop an autumnal edge (Autumnal in the corporate sense. It’s still 85 degrees in Arkansas).

My mouth brims, gluttonous as I imagine pumpkin syrup melting on my tongue, laced with plenty of sugar, ginger, and cloves. In the South, we’re lucky if fall appreciation lasts more than a month; it’s plagued by lingering summer heat, so by the time the first chill prompts us to dig out our sweaters, Christmas hysteria squashes it. September’s barely started, but I’m going to milk the season for all it’s worth, and the celebration begins with enough caffeine shots to rouse a hibernating bear.

Witch’s Brew doesn’t have a rulebook, but I have my rituals:

1. Quizzically study the menu as if I’ve never read it before,
2. Light up when I notice the only pumpkin-based drink on the seasonal menu – The Falling Leaf,
3. Substitute for oat milk (or come to regret it), 
4. Forget to order the chocolate croissant you’ve always wanted to try, and
5. Try to ignore the guy on the couch brushing chocolate flakes off his lap and onto the rug.

Witch’s Brew welcomes throngs of digital nomads every day of the week, even Sundays when most others are closed for church. I weave through the cozy shop, pretending to look for an empty seat. A green stool under the window beckons me, but I take a turn around the room to douse the ember of anxiety threatening to catch. This particular stool isn’t comfortable compared to the plush couches arranged in circles, but the corner is perfectly exposed. 

Ivy droops like curtain folds, shielding me from eyes peering inside. To be noticed by strangers is one matter; to be perceived is another entirely. Floor-to-ceiling windows allow me to empathize with the pant-suited woman racing barefoot to work, heels in hand, just as I catch the quiet one in a huddle of suited workers confess that he hates how his boss, too. On one side of the glass, I’m a customer – at best, a coworker; on the other, I don’t even exist.

“Falling Leaf for Winona!,” a freckled man with a mullet shouts and I careen to the counter. I shuffle carefully back to the stool without breaking my gaze from the cup as it wobbles on its saucer, jiggling the frothy swan coating the surface. A dark splash escapes that I’m tempted to lap up like a dog, but I do have some semblance of shame left. The cup steams, a fireplace against my palms, and I lean my nose into the hazy trail.

God. My shoulders slump. Is that cardamom? No, nutmeg. And – 

A different warmth blooms. It spiderwebs across my chest as if I took a shot of strong tequila. But I haven’t drunk anything. This new warmth tickles me, like when Erica traps me in a hug from behind, nuzzling my neck so her curls tease my skin and I shiver, smiling with closed eyes. 

I shiver on the stool now. But this warmth turns to a chill. What I smell isn’t cardamom, or nutmeg, or pumpkin, even. The spiderweb twists into an anxious knot and drops to my stomach. 

Cologne. Davidoff, laced with coriander, mint, and pine (or some other tree?). Hell, I don’t know anything about cologne. Just that this is the cologne, a scent that blurs sex and innocence, a scent so dangerously nostalgic you might as well have pulled out a photo album. 

I steal a glance to the side and the knot loosens a tad. He’s bearded and muscular, dressed in a cream linen shirt shrugged lazily over his dark skin. He drips cool professionalism. He’s not her. Yet there’s a phantom scent possessing him and meditating. She haunts me, and he’s a messenger that I can’t shoot down. My Falling Leaf is tainted. Attempting to smother the musk with pumpkin syrup proved fruitless. The memories crack open like a flipbook. 

I was sixteen when it started. 

“Isn’t that men’s?” I asked, standing skeptically in front of a shelf littered with mismatched socks and phone accessories. 

Eleanor shrugged, sniffing a bottle of Davidoff missing its cap. “Probably.” She tossed it in our basket. “But it’s on sale.” 

I didn’t have the gall to tell her it reminded me of the bottle Nana picked out for Grandpa Jack so he wouldn’t “smell like an old man.” Go figure. 

Ellie wore it every day. So much so that she scoured eBay for another bottle. The smell still makes me squirm. 

We were a bundle of nerves at first. At least I was. It was a classic friends-to-lovers arc, with all its sweet, pitiful yearning sugared with butterfly-infested bellies and hungry glances across classrooms. 

The Ten Commandments hung above every classroom door. Number Ten spotlighted me, but I couldn’t rip my eyes away from her. Thick black glasses framed by shaggy brown locks. Staff – who preferred anything unembellished – scrutinized her Dirty Converse, lacy knee highs, and jelly bracelets. In a sea of plaid skirts, polos, and North Face, she wore what she liked. I tried to get away with pink tights under my skirt, but I didn’t even make it to First Period before the stuffy choir director escorted me to the bathroom and blocked the stall until I threw them over the door to "confiscate."

A fireplace crackled across the living room the first time she brushed my lips with hers. It was the first month, and nobody suspected. “I always did, Winona,” she whispered after I asked. She ran her tongue against my teeth, and we were smiling. 

We hid in the choir room during Youth Group. Friends warned me. Then rumors spread of lingering hugs, and make-outs in parking lots. The teachers separated us on Senior Trip – no room sharing, or roaming alone.

My mom suspected. She didn’t like that I didn’t invite anyone of my other friends over, only “that girl Eleanor.” Ellie wasn’t allowed in the house the second year, but that didn’t stop me from propping open the window at night. 

That first year was sugary sweet. We hid between billowing choir robes on Wednesday night, feeling for each other, holding on and reluctant to let go. Old women sang from hymnals across the wall. We giggled as we touched, shushing, and I memorized her quickened heart, cradling it in my hands ‘till it calmed. 

The second year was licking wounds. We stood at the front door of my parent’s house with the threshold pierced between us. She dripped sweat in the sweltering summer; I shivered in the air conditioning. “I will, Winona – this isn’t the end. I’ll see you again.” She hiccuped. “I love you.” And we were crying. 

I suffocated my sobs with a pillow for two weeks. “You’ll meet new friends,” Mom offered. We stared at the ocean, and I dug my hands into the sand as saltwater washed over our legs. She knew that’s not what I wanted. Right then, I wanted the sand to rub my skin to the bone. 

When Eleanor moved away, my arms ripped from their sockets. No matter how far I tried to reach, or how much I strained, I didn’t feel a thing. There was nothing there. 

The following months mocked me, the remaining hope squashed into missed calls and quiet Skype dates. Those months beat the last bloody drops from me until I whimpered to the end. One final phone call. I searched for warmth in her voice, and I found nothing. Indifference, maybe. Death by “mutual decision.”

I fantasized endlessly about her silver frames peeking through the lecture hall window, and we’d smile. And she’d move back home. And we’d be happy. But she didn’t come back when it mattered.

I didn’t stop smelling her fucking cologne for a month, then it reeked of dorm laundry and I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I sobbed into the knit where I once would listen to Ellie’s heart. Back then, her heart would skip, and I’d look up, and she’d already be smiling. 

She texted that she’d visit in the spring of my Sophomore year. We’d already split for 4 months by then. Ellie had the strength enough to wave a white banner, yet I could barely lift a finger. By that point, my first-semester fling had already dropped out and moved back home, at least that was familiar. She canceled a week later.

She’d call like that, out of the blue. But I couldn’t keep entertaining the Fates, who surely rolled their eyes each time I answered the phone. Somewhere in there, I knew we wouldn’t be the same if she moved back. When I offered my graduation money to catch a plane to see her just a month into college, she didn’t even care enough to say no. She didn’t even address the possibility. 

I told her to stop calling. She didn’t after that. I graduated, and she moved back to Arkansas. We didn’t speak again. 

What did her heart sound like when she left – when she returned, and I wasn’t there? Did it splinter as mine shattered? Five flings later and one partner, I’m scotch taped back together. But if anyone had an extra “FRAGILE” sticker lying around, I’d take it. 

“Am I too close?” 

I snap my eyes open. The man next to me stares back, not unkindly, knitting his curly brown brows at the bridge. 

“No!” I yip, punctuated by a broken laugh. “No, you’re good. Sorry. Just– Sorry. Off in my own world.”  

He bobs his chin but only returns to his iPad after scooching a millimeter to the left.  

I sit in shock at how affected I was, then snag my wallet and phone before I dart to the bathroom, taking care not to barrel down customers with their wobbly cups. 

The door’s locked. Why do these places only have one fucking toilet?

A stout man exits. I serve him my signature White Person Smile and lock the door behind me. I take off my ring and wash my hands ritualistically, rubbing my neck with cool water.

I don’t cry, but I could. Tears brew in here somewhere. I could sob into the mirror and scrub my hands ‘till they bleed, and I’ve done those things before. Her fingerprints washed away years ago, and I stare at my reflection, wondering why I bothered to rush in here at all.

I suck a breath deep into my lungs, releasing it through my nose. Someone knocks. The paper towel dispenser is empty, so I dry my hands lazily on my dress and shove the door open.

Erica stands on the other side, all dimples, box braids, and silver rings. She smiles.

“There you are! I saw your stuff at the bar. Figured you be in here. Sorry, I’m late. You know.” She looks up through her lashes, acting coy, despite being 6 inches taller. “Wait for me?” She plants a kiss on my forehead, sidles past, and locks the door. 

I tuck myself against the wall. Servers rush by with bags of beans and milk cartoons. The knot in my stomach loosens, and I suck in another deep breath, anxious for Erica’s company. I hear a flush, and the door swings open. “Wouldn’t want to lose this.” She takes my finger and slips on the ring I abandoned by the sink. It mirrors the lustrous emerald on her left hand. 

“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver,” I say. 

“Anytime.” She takes my pinkie finger in hers and tugs me back to our spot by the window. The cologne guy moved to one of the couches. Whoops.

Three years ago, Erica and I shared our first date sunk deep into that couch, holding hands. But the window seat has outlets, so we reluctantly made the switch.

Erica settles into the vacant stool, adjusting a star-shaped charm near her temple. Ten other stars halo her face, and I can’t help but kiss her. She breaks it with a laugh and gives my knee a quick squeeze. Then she gets to work unpacking her tote bag. I watch with stars in my eyes as she masterfully sketches an old man sitting on the patio outside with nubby charcoal pencils.

Her clove perfume envelops me, dancing and swirling with my untouched latte until they marry, nearly indistinguishable, notes intertwined yet distinct.

I smile and take a sip.