Seasons of Love
Frost climbed up the window, but inside it was warm. The old man made his way from the kitchen to where his armchair beckoned, navy slippers blanketing his steps. He sat down and looked outside, gaze lingering on the empty chair beside him. His sigh was soft, barely audible.
-------------------
Even underwater, he could hear their laughter. The boy looked around the sea floor, scanning the sun’s reflective patterns on the sand. His lungs seemed to shrink, about to collapse in on themselves. Launching himself from the seafloor, he burst through the surface into the sunlight above.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new record!” Jamie slapped the boy on the back, almost pushing out the deep breath he had just brought in. “Arthur, how does it feel to be the new breath-holding champion?”
“You still don’t want to join the navy?” said Alex, “Not too late to transfer from that music course.”
“Guys, give him some space,” said John, and the others laughed as they retreated. “Besides he’s way too much of a pacifist to join the navy.”
“Thanks, guys.” said Arthur.
“Hey!” someone called from the beach. “Stop hiding out there and let me beat you all at cricket.”
The boys splashed Arthur as they swam towards the voice. Hands on her hips, a girl stood on the beach with a grin visible even from where he floated. He closed his eyes and sank under the surface again.
Beneath him the sand was warm, a comforting mattress, while his friends played card games. A cold shadow spread across his skin. Opening his eyes, a figure stood above him blocking out the sunlight, her features shaded but he could smile still bright.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he grinned back.
Every time he thought of that summer, Alba’s smile was engraved into his brain, warmer than all of the campfires they went to.
During their final beach trip, they all gathered for a barbeque, to watch the sun go down on their childhoods.
“What do you think you’ll miss most about this summer when you’re at uni?” Arthur asked while they roasted marshmallows.
“Probably all of your philosophical questions.” She said, smirking.
“Think about it.”
“Um, I don’t know. I don’t really look back like that, I guess.” She focused on rotating her marshmallow, so the pink flesh was perfectly roasted and gooey.
Arthur wanted to say he’d miss sunrise runs and playing her favourite songs on the piano. The way her nose crinkled when he offered her peanut butter, and the sound she made when he beat her at tennis for the first time. The crack on her front tooth.
“Me too.” He said.
-------------------
His days at university blended into nights like watercolour paints. Book pages flipped as the moon cycled through her monthly dance. But as she became full, Arthur stayed empty - until Hazel fell into his life like leaves from a tree.
Sitting in a lecture, he saw her hair, vibrant red like the acer trees on campus. The lecturer’s words faded into the background like raindrops. She scanned the room for a seat before seeing the empty chair beside him. An exchange of smiles; the currency of friendship or, in his hopeful heart, maybe more. They hid laughter behind their hands about the lecture’s dullness.
“What’s an English student doing taking music classes?” he whispered.
“Honestly? I got lost.” She said, “but I saw you in here, so I guess I had a reason to stay.”
His cheeks gradually matched her hair.
Everywhere he went from then on, Hazel was there, her arm snaked around his like a flame encompassing a log. Months went by, and her cinnamon scent accumulated in his room like fog. She knitted him a wonky, rust-coloured scarf. They’d spend weekends inside, him writing music and Hazel reading. Over his papers, he stole glimpses of her curled into a chair, entranced by her book.
Hazel and Arthur hung onto each other through final year, sheltering from the looming storm - the future crept towards them like a raincloud. All their planning, studying, and dedication was coming to fruition, pieces snapping into place. But their pieces no longer fitted together.
Before graduation, she smiled at him sadly, squeezing his hand. She opened her mouth to speak.
“I know.” He said, “It’s ok.”
He could still smell cinnamon from her embrace long after she left.
-------------------
Cold was his constant companion for three years. It greeted him every morning with the condensation on his windows, and the frost that refused to wake up on the pavements. It didn’t matter how many layers he wore, how tightly he wrapped his scarf round his neck - the cold always managed to latch onto his skin.
“Turn on the heating then.” His friends from school said, laughing at what seemed obvious. His university friends made comments about how post-graduation was always tough and they had to just get through. Arthur tried to explain that the cold had rooted in his chest like an unwanted tenant, so they told him to go to the doctor in case of a chest infection. He thought about telling Hazel, but she was far gone.
“Latte with oat milk.”
He placed the to-go cup on the counter, turning back to the coffee machine. In the reflective surface, his features seemed distorted, his entire face dragged down by the purple circles under his eyes.
“Black coffee. To go.”
Arthur turned to the woman waiting. Her short hair had been dyed white and it hung around her face like icicles. Dark berry-coloured lips were pulled up in one corner.
At the time, he thought the darkness in her eyes was the same as his coldness. That she might be able to understand it.
But they were dark, unfeeling circles that he could never interpret.
It was two years of walking on his tiptoes to not crack the ice. Never questioning, never lazy, never stupid when Mia was around. It was staying out too late and walking home too early, his hands stuffed in his pockets, searching for scraps of heat.
“Art,” she called, pulling on her boots, “I’m going out.”
She glanced at him in the mirror, painting her lips a dark red like dried blood.
“Are you going to say something or just watch me?”
“Where are you going?”
He already knew the answer.
“With friends.”
“Mia, you know that’s not what I asked.”
She rolled her eyes. “Unimportant. Don’t wait up like a lovesick puppy, Art.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
He never waited for her. He just couldn’t sleep anymore. She’d stumble through the door, smelling unfamiliar, and he’d still be laying on the sofa. He tried to explain that closing his eyes was the same as having them open, except he couldn’t distract himself visually. The hollowness still lingered in his chest, ever present like an open wound.
Mia didn’t understand.
“That’s what living in London will do to you.”
As he spiralled, his search for heat became more desperate. Wine warmed him gradually, but whiskey was like striking a match. He looked for warmth in Mia too - but she was almost as cold as him.
It took a long time before he found his own warmth again.
-------------------
Arthur lost himself in his music. He played his violin until the strings etched red lines in his fingers. When he shut his eyes, he could still see the lines of the score sheet.
Mia walked out, sighing about how she wanted someone more engaged, more fun. He watched her go, taking some of the cold out the door with her.
The street corner by the café he worked at became his stage, between shifts and on lunch breaks. Desperate to know if his music was worth an audience.
It was his third week of busking when he realised the girl had come back for three days in a row. When he glanced up from his strings, she was watching, her brown hair swaying in the wind reminded him of a willow tree. Arthur finished his piece and removed the instrument from his chin. A few people clapped, most kept walking.
“You play so beautifully.”
He looked up from his violin case. She stood before him, green eyes glinting.
“Thank you. Do you play?”
She shook her head as he started to pack up his violin.
“But I do sing.”
Iris joined him on the street corner every day. Her voice was clear like a mountain spring, powerful too. It was Arthur’s favourite sound. They performed together, instrument and voice sliding over each other in a complicated dance that only they seemed to know the steps to.
Their duet soon left the street, and harmonies entwined them in other ways. She would sing for him whenever he asked, even with her eight performances a week.
They used to walk by the river together. Iris would identify all the flowers that were awakening and listen for bird calls.
“I love it when the days get longer.” She said on their walk around the lake once. “It means the darkness and cold is leaving.”
“Does it ever really leave?” He muttered. He never swallowed his words with Iris. The cold had dispersed throughout his body, so his chest was less heavy. But it was always there, threatening to freeze him once more.
“I know it might not seem like it now, but it’s a blessing in disguise to feel so deeply.” Iris paused, “it’s how you’re able to write as beautifully as you do.”
They weren’t rich in money, but were enriched by other aspects of life. They sang, composed, and played every day until old age tapped them on the shoulders. After all the decades together, it still felt like they had just met. Every day was a new beginning, a new day they could spend together and although the seasons changed and the cold returned, Iris was always there to point out new flowers and the lightening sky.
-------------------
The old man sat in his armchair, listening to a song from decades past. Outside, the flowers were beginning to awaken in time for spring.