Erica Jacobs-Perkins
Time-Lapse
I.
"Merry Christmas," she said – hesitated, kissed him on the cheek.
He took the steaming gingerbread wordlessly, half-met her eyes, turned away. The depth in them frightened him.
He paused mid-stride, turned around. "Merry Christmas to you too," with a smile. "Don't leave the door open too long. Cold out here." She did; stood shivering in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, snow blowing on bare feet.
Days went by, now months. Warm air blew in the doorway and melted the tiny snow peaks. Still the door stayed open – no sacrifice anymore. Spring flowers can't hurt bare feet.
II.
The doorbell rang. That made no sense; the door was already open. She padded out, barefoot, to greet this considerate visitor.
"Happy birthday." He held her loaf pan, now full of a bristly, happy houseplant.
"You remembered," she said, taking the plant, disbelieving, not meeting his gaze.
He held the pan still. "Not really. See, I don't cook much, but I couldn't return your pan empty, and – well, it took a while to grow."
Her face alight, radiant, she pulled him in, shut the door, opened a window. They kissed, and the lavender tickled their chins.