Flick

There it was again.

Flick. Flutter. Flick. 

In the stillness and silence, there it was.

Old Jack rubbed his eyes with the grimy callused fingertips poking out of his fingerless gloves. He pushed the thick Yankee beanie further above his furrowed and wrinkled brow. He alternated between widening his eyes and squinting his eyes. He shifted his weight, his dirty boots discoloring the snow underfoot.  

Clouds of panicked condensation swirled around his large nose in quick bursts. Heart pounding, tripping, and stuttering, Old Jack panted through his yellowed teeth. Transfixed in fear, he watched the empty park bench from his hiding place behind a snow dusted trash can. 

Only, the bench wasn’t empty, was it?

Nothing scared Old Jack off of his park bench. Not the cold, nor the wind, nor the rain; and not the police, nor the rich folk, nor his fellow street bums. Nothing. 

For years he’d defended his territory. From there, Old Jack could weather any kind of storm and ward off any kind of man who got too close. That bench was his resting place, his sacred space, and as close to home as any public park bench could be. 

During the day, the bench soaked up every lost ray of sunshine and sang to the tune of the subway vibrating and rattling far underground. At night, the bench fought off the chill as warm air from the manhole between its legs oozed out. Although the noise of heavy traffic in the distance was still audible, the bench was situated in a forgotten corner of Central Park, away from the chaos of the city. 

Old Jack’s bench was perfect.

And he clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so. 

Jack rubbed his eyes once more. He blinked through his visible breath. 

Was he imagining it? 

He briefly glanced to the side of the bench where his bottles lay, strewn around in the snow next to his blanket and bundle of belongings. All of which were sealed tight. 

Unopened. 

On this particular night, the distant sounds of the city were hushed. It was snowing. Snowflakes piled on Old Jack’s shoulders and atop his beanie. He could hear each individual flake as it landed, and this unnerved him even more. 

How was it possible to hear a snowflake? The sound was indescribable; just the faintest of flicks as each flake was reunited with its friends on the ground or atop a tree. Snowflakes fluttered and whirled as they dropped, each one never repeating the path of another. How had he never noticed this before?

Jack adjusted his boots again with a sudden squeak and squelch in the fresh snow. His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the metal frame of the trash can. Snowflakes continued to fall in a cascade of flicks. 

He waited. 

Nothing happened. It was still there. 

A little girl danced across the edge of the park bench, her bare feet tiptoeing without displacing a single piece of snow. She twirled and spun to some imperceptible melody, her hazy blue dress a blur around her calves. She was a little girl. A little tiny girl. 

Impossibly small. 

Smaller than Jack’s unwashed and chipped thumb nail, Old Jack watched as the girl kicked a descending snowflake, sending it tumbling through the air.

He wasn’t even sure how he could see something so minute. 

What was it?

Old Jack barely dared to inch closer. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid of frightening the little girl away, or if he was afraid she wouldn’t be bothered at all. 

She seemed to have no care in the world, catching snowflakes as they streamed around her and leaping across his beloved park bench. No visible footprints trailed behind her and she seemed to glow faintly. She had long white hair and sparkling baby blue eyes framed by dainty lashes. The girl twirled her arms over her head as she lept and spun.

Old Jack sat back on his heels in wonder. Maybe she was an angel? 

The little girl paused mid pirouette. Her beautiful eyes found the top half of Old Jack, peering around the can. She watched as snowflakes piled on his jacket, scarf, and hat. 

Flick. Flutter. Flick. 

She’d seen him now! 

Old Jack felt his heart drop. He felt himself moving closer, until the peppered whiskers on his chin brushed against the park bench. The little girl never wavered, although her head cocked and her hair blew around her in the tiniest of breezes. 

Old Jack knelt down, his hands on his knees and his rump atop the heels of his boots. His big nose hovered just in front of the girl's petite face. 

“Are you an angel?” Old Jack asked, his breath fogging the snowy air. 

The little girl tumbled over in the sudden gust of Jack’s condensation. Her dress billowed as she fell backwards and sneezed. A little tiny sneeze. She laughed, all of her teeth pearly and white. Old Jack lowered his mouth beneath the edge of the park bench. 

His big mouth almost blew her away!

Old Jack swore he could see a soft ring of a halo above her pale head as she looked back up at him. Her eyes were the color of the sky and her nose and cheeks were dusted with blue. Each breath Jack took crept up through the cracks in the bench around the little girl before disappearing into the dark. 

The little girl rose and dusted herself off. Sparkles and snowflakes rained down around her ankles. She blinked, her gaze shifting to something above. She watched as a large snowflake fluttered down and landed perfectly on the tip of Old Jack's nose. 

Flick. 

The little girl grinned, as happy as could be. Jack was surprised that a white, blue, and snowy expression could be as warm as hers was. He was even more surprised to find a smile on his face too, under the cold park bench.

“Jack? Is that you?”

A voice cut through the night. Old Jack spun around.

“You alright there, Jack?”

A figure, cloaked in blankets and scarves, stood on the sidewalk nearby. One hand was gloved, the other was mittened. A hairy dog leaned against the figure's leg; its fur was caked in ice and snow. 

“Tommy?” Old Jack whispered.

Tommy spent most of his days befriending stray animals and sleeping under an abandoned bridge with his loyal German shepherd. Old Jack was the only human he considered a friend. 

“Yeah. I knew you would be out here on your bench. Even in the snow,” Tommy said, shuffling his feet. “I thought you might wanna come under my bridge though. Everyone’s there.”

Tommy glanced around at Old Jack’s belongings, scattered around and half-buried already. 

Jack spun back around. The little girl was gone. 

“The storm’s getting worse, y’know,” Tommy ventured to say, when Old Jack didn’t speak. 

Old Jack scanned the bench in vain. How could she be gone? Snowflakes continued to fall and Jack’s shoulders drooped. 

“Yeah,” he managed to mumble. “I’ll come with you.”

Flick. Flutter. Flick. 

Old Jack collected his belongings and walked alongside his friend, Tommy, to the shelter. All the while he wondered if he’d ever see the little girl again. 

The little tiny girl. 

The little snowflake girl.