Prose

Exchange of the Solistice

Marian Hermez

The ballroom was draped with fabrics of different shades of blue: navy blue, icy blue, turquoise. Icy sculptures of couples dancing together were scattered around. Vivaldi’s Winter echoed from somewhere. Glass trays floated around, unsupported, as if being carried by phantoms. On the trays were small glasses filled with liquids of myriads of colors.

A bronze hand adorned with gold rings snatched one of the glasses and brought it up to full lips colored in light pink. Before downing the liquid, the lips drew up into a smile and the girl flicked her long brown hair from one shoulder to the other.

“A drink for confidence?” a voice whispered in her ear.

A tremor ran through her spine at the cold breath. She didn’t let that phase her. She turned around, still smiling, the glass hovering at her lips. Her dark brown eyes met icy blue ones and she slowly drank the indigo-colored liquid before letting go of the glass. It shattered at her sandaled feet, the pieces glittering on the translucent floor. Traces of blueberry and something sweet, but unidentifiable lingered on her tongue.

“A drink for peace of mind,” she replied. “You might need the confidence, however.”

The boy scoffed and ran a gloved hand through his dark hair. He was dressed in the finest fabrics, dark blue and black, bringing out his light eyes, dark hair and pale skin. Although she hated to admit it, he looked gorgeous.

“Ready to relinquish your power?” He took a step forward.

She didn’t move backwards. They were now so close, she could see the ice clinging to his eyelashes and the flurries of snow on the shoulders of his jacket. She could smell the fresh cold breeze and the petrichor on him, just like she knew he could smell the fresh fruit and the sea salt on her.

“We do this every year,” she murmured. “You ask the same question, and my answer remains the same.”

He stepped even closer this time, but they weren’t touching. They could never touch.

“Humor me,” he said so softly she wasn’t even sure if she heard him or read his lips.

“I don’t relinquish my power.” She let out a low chuckle, enjoying her role. “I just take a well-deserved break and let you take control of the reins.” She looked up at him. “But I know people are waiting eagerly for me.”

“Oh, how wrong you are, Summer. They’re not waiting for you. They’re waiting for the holidays.”

“The only beacon of light in this dark and dreary season,” she retorted. “But me? They love me from start to finish. In a couple of days, they will eagerly be awaiting my return.” She took a step back, feeling the smooth fabric of her gold dress swish around her bare legs. “And so will you, Winter.”

Winter laughed. The sound burned warm somewhere in her chest. “You’ve caught me. You know how much I look forward to this.” He raised his arm and gestured to the empty ballroom. “I do this just for you every year.”

Summer’s competitive nature ignited. “Well, I could arrange a lovely ball such as this one, but I prefer meeting in nature, where everything is as it should be.”

Her mind flashed back to their previous meeting in June. She could still feel the sand between her toes and hear the repetitive sound of the waves crashing. He had walked over to her, looking worse for wear. His boots were dusted with sand and his hair was soaked in sweat.

She had laughed, doing nothing to help him. “I bet you’re glad it's my turn now.” rested.”

His reply was merely a grumble. Impatiently, he had reached into his pocket and pulled out a rusted pocket watch, except instead of numbers on the face of the watch, there were the twelve months.

A cold breeze pulled her back to the present. She was met with Winter’s disgruntled expression, similar to last June.

“You’re remembering the last time we met, aren’t you?” he accused. “You look more put together now,” she said simply. “You look well-

“And you look wonderful,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Winter. You know that.”

“And you know I don’t care for flattery. I’m cold and straight to the point.” He dug his gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of lace white gloves, the wrists lined with pearls.

Without a word, Summer extended her hand and he dropped the gloves in her palm. He watched quietly, almost curiously as she slipped them on. Then, carefully, she placed a hand on his shoulder. The velvet material felt smooth and warm beneath her gloved hand. His shoulder dropped incrementally.

This time when she looked at him, there was no trace of mirth or challenge in his expression. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that was only reserved for her.

“I believe,” his tone was just as soft as his expression, “I owe you a dance.”

She didn’t want to reply and break the spell of this moment. She wanted the peace that unfurled within her – cooling the heat that her body continuously burned with– to last forever, but she knew she could never get that. The only thing she could get were these fragments of time with him.

That would have to be enough.

She placed her left hand on his shoulder and her right reached for his hand. He wrapped an arm around her waist, careful not to actually let his arm touch her, and interlocked their fingers. The music rose to a crescendo.

It finally felt right.

No matter how repetitive these meetings got, Summer knew she was meant to meet Winter twice a year until the end of age. She knew she was meant to make these jokes with him, dance with him and dread the ending even though she knew it was coming. No matter how lonely the following months would be, she knew she wouldn’t trade it for anything if it meant not having her meetings with Winter.

They danced among the ice sculptures, balancing precariously on a fine line between a sad parody of a party and a romantic private dance between a couple. Not a word was spoken between them. This time was sacred because the end was near.

Or at least, Summer thought it was. Because after they finished dancing, they would step apart and Summer would hand Winter the pocket watch and leave without saying a word. Trying to prolong her stay or looking back would be too painful.

This time, however, when the music came to an end, Winter tapped her palm gently.

“I want to show you something,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, “before you leave.”

He held on to her hand and the room simply dissolved around them. Summer’s breath caught in her throat. Winter had never taken her away from the scenarios he’d created for them. She always met him in the ballroom, and he always met her on the beach.

They were now standing on a high street of a quiet village covered with snow. The warm Christmas lights that hung around the windows and the doors winked at them as they made their way down the street. Silhouettes of Christmas trees and warm fires burning in hearths beckoned them into the warmth.

Of course, Summer never felt cold. She radiated warmth, so she never felt the need to wrap herself in scarves and coats like Winter did, but she appreciated the beauty of the cold all the same.

Further down the street, in a small cabin-turned-tavern, the sound of Christmas carols and laughter filtered through a crack in a fogged over window. Summer and Winter exchanged a look before walking over to the tavern. Summer was about to pull the door open when Winter stopped her with a hand on the door.

“You can’t go in there like that,” he said with a laugh. “You need to be dressed for the weather.”

“Do I look like I have any winter clothes, Winter?” she shot back.

Winter grinned and reached for something over her shoulder. He had conjured, out of thin air, a sweater, a coat and a scarf. He handed them to her.

The sweater was red and the coat and scarf were black. The sweater felt soft against her skin. The layer of warmth that the coat and scarf were supposed to add went unnoticed by her. She met Winter’s eyes and twirled around.

“How do I look?”

Winter snorted. “Weird. I’ve never seen you dressed like that. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Summer rolled her eyes and pushed the door open. They headed inside the tavern and joined the crowd of people singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Winter, Summer was surprised to find out, was an excellent singer. He poured his heart and soul into each carol and sang cheerily. He wrapped his arms around two drunk old men who kept offering him drinks. Summer joined in the singing and laughed giddily when a young girl in her twenties grabbed her hands and spun her around. Soon enough, Summer’s face started to ache.

She could not remember the last time she had smiled and laughed like that. The only thing she knew was that Winter had to be there. He was the one who always made her laugh.

After countless dances and a couple of eggnog shots, Summer made her back to Winter. He was sitting on a wooden table in the corner by the crackling fireplace, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. A full glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a plate of carrots sat beside him.

Summer stood at a distance, taking in his unguarded stance and expression. He seemed at ease, back resting comfortably against the chair. Then, as if feeling the weight of her stare, he raised his eyes to hers and his lips drew into a small smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked as she walked over and took a seat on the opposite chair.

“Very much,” she said earnestly. “I think this has been one of our best meetings yet.”

His eyes widened a little before he controlled his expression. “Really?”

She nodded, then added. “I see why people love Winter – er– you so much. You bring out the best in people.”

“You bring out the best in me, Summer. I don’t know how I could survive this without you.”

Summer cleared her throat. She pointed at the assortment of cookies and carrots. “What’s this for?”

Winter took her change of subject in stride. “Santa and his reindeer, of course. The owner’s children set it up. They live right upstairs.”

“How lovely.” Summer’s voice wobbled a little.

They both glanced at the Grandfather clock across the tavern. Their time was nearly up. The pocket watch had to exchange hands before midnight, so the Winter Solstice could be official. Summer’s heart felt tight in her chest as she reached around her neck for the clasp.

“Let me,” Winter whispered gently, almost reverently.

He walked around the table and grasped the clasp between his gloved fingers. Suddenly, the weight of the watch disappeared. This was it. Summer had no reason to stay. She blinked away her tears as she rose to her feet and briefly set her fingers on Winter’s shoulder.

Then, she was gone as if she was never there…

The ballroom was draped with fabrics of different shades of blue: navy blue, icy blue, turquoise. Icy sculptures of couples dancing together were slowly melting. Vivaldi’s Winter came to an end. Glass trays sat on the floor. On the trays were small empty glasses. Shards of glass glittered on the icy floor.

Footsteps echoed in the empty ballroom. Pale hands reached out and pulled the doors shut, plunging the ballroom into darkness.

Until next year.

I aint Cowboy Charlie Kleft

In Montana, we used to go country dancin’, all of us, at The Elks Lodge or the Round Barn, and the band’d mostly play 4-counts built for two-steppin’, but they’d always slip in a waltz and that waltz was always “Waltz Across Texas,” and nobody danced it better than my mom and Uncle Sue. While Granny was able, Papa would dance with her, but once Granny was in memory care, Papa danced with his daughters: Aunt Joe or my mom. I, being a kid, also danced with Aunt Joe or Mom. Granny had what the family called “All-Timers,” but what was in reality a test of Papa’s love. Papa visited Granny at the care home every single day for five, six, seven years.

Papa’s hair was thunder black, combed straight back a windswept Space Age cowboy and if he drank, it was always a SevenSeven. See, Papa grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation, where his mother was a missionary, but she died when Papa was fifteen and he had to take care of his two little brothers. When he was eighteen, Uncle Sam sent him off to the Philippines, where he mostly drove trucks, but also shot a Japanese soldier dead. Papa used the word Jap like he used salt at the dinner table. Papa had this little, red pickup that he called a “toy car” just because it was Japanesemade, unlike the American junkers he kept out back. Papa once pointed out (with his middle finger, like all old guys) a man in a grimy boiler suit, said, “We call that fella Tiny” and hell if I didn’t laugh because Tiny weighed about 350 pounds.

Another time, Papa came out to visit us in Colorado. He saw me doing dishes for my mother and he told me I’d make somebody a great wife someday. Later Mom said, “don’t listen to him; he’s a dinosaur.” Papa’s plan for my mother had involved housewifery to some gentleman named Cowboy Al, but Mom fled Montana pretty much as soon as she could, went to college, built a new life for herself and her unborn children.

On our annual visits to Montana, Mom and I played ambassadors of an outlandish place where not everyone drove a pickup, listened to George Strait, and had a well-practiced Yeehaw! and Giddyup! In our rental car, we’d pull up to the Butte House, where Mom had grown up. As we walked in through the front door, the smell of piston grease, cowhide, and horse breath would slide through my blood-brain barrier, an’ impart to my Montanan genes s1omethin’ that my suburban wits couldn’t grasp. Papa’d offer me a stale donut and I’d take it gladly, but I’d refuse the coffee because I was just fifteen and hadn’t worked a day in my life.

Blue Wind

When the fox howls in the blue wind and twilight scatters stars between the branches of trees, the past washes up to me all secret and furtively. It’s presence mighty and dark and thunderous in the lids of my eyes. When everything is so the same, it can be nicer to feel the heat of danger and the spark of despair. It’s nicer to walk in the darkness that is honest in letting itself be known than to traipse, ignorant as a dog, to the empty warmth of more solid stuff. You are better to reach out blindly to the misty pall of the unknown than to hold onto the thin oars of normality. If all is to be lost to the blue wind in time, we may as well learn to love it. Let this coldness burn so that it may become heat. Let this sorrow find a more permanent place amongst the treasured stars. Let this constellation of bewildering phantasmagoria embrace you. Become familiar with the nothingness and let contradiction be your brother. Because how can there be song without sorrow? Or the blue wind without blood?