Coffee at Christmastime

A few blocks away from the buisness district to the east, and a few blocks away from the museums to the south, lay a coffee shop. It only opened a year ago, and was fairly popular, although that was likely attributed to its aforementioned location. Lawyers, suits, accountants, and the like could stop by the place on their lunch break without using too much of it to get there, but didn't have to then look at the silver towers where their offices were found, and visitors to the museums had a handy spot to eat.

The decor was, in a word, eclectic. The Caffeinated Firefly, so it was called, was owned by two twenty-somethings who prided themselves on supporting local buisness and sustainable living, which meant all of the furniture was purchased from thrift stores, and all of the art was purchased from local artists, and so there was no cohesive theme. This also added to its popularity. The museum goers found it cute and trendy, and it made the suits feel less like, well, suits. It was a strictly non-corporate environment, and not in a corporate-non-corporate way.

Then, amongst all the usual patrons, amongst all the suits and museum goers and tourists and other twenty-somethings was one old man. One couldn't really describe him as "elderly," despite the fact he used a cane, there was still black in his white hair, of which he had lost none with age, and he still stood straight. He looked as though he would have been quite muscular in his prime, but he was old, now. And, notably, had visited the cafe every day, at the same time, since it opened. He always ordered darjeeling tea, without any milk or sugar, and left twenty dollars as a tip, even though the tea cost less than seven. He always wore a black suit, and of all things, a golden pocket watch. He never spoke to anyone, beyond the usual pleasantries, never sat with anyone, and the only change in his routine was if he sat at his usual table and drew, wrote, or simply stared out the window, towards the museums.

That was where he sat, now. He had an open notebook in front of him, and he was holding a pen, but he wasn't writing. It was a "look out the window" day, it would seem, and he hardly stirred when the other patrons strolled in, and all the other tables slowly filled, because the coming of Christmas increased the popularity.
 
Christmas: a time for fun, a time for family, a time for cold weather and snow, and a time for holiday cheer. Today was the epitome of all those things. It was chilly with a slight breeze, and snow flurried about bundled-up people of all shapes and sizes.
One such person was Alexander, a tall, lanky avian humanoid. He had the head and legs of a bird, but the body and arms of a man. His eyes, large and sapphire, were on the front of his skull, and he had a short, conical beak. He was covered in soft, white plumage. He wore a heavy black winter coat with a fury hood, red gloves with furry cuffs, blue jeans, and black fur boots. He wore a fluffy Santa hat, perfect for the season.
It was his first day off from work for the holidays, and what better way to spend it then be out and about. He stopped and gazed up at the little shop.
'Hmmmm, The Caffeinated Firefly. Cute name,' he thought, amused.
He entered and smiled in amazement at how fancy, yet cute the place. Walking up to the counter, he ordered a cinnamon roll, fudge-frosted brownie, and a cup of hot cocoa. His order came on a red tray. Alexander pulled out his wallet and paid for it with a credit card. Looking around, he spotted an unoccupied table by a window. Carefully, he scooped the tray in his scrawny arms and walked over, gasping when he accidentally dropped it on the table, making a loud clatter. Luckily, nothing was damaged, so he seated himself and removed his gloves, pocketing them. He got to work on the cinnamon roll first while humming "Last Christmas" in his angelic, feminine tone.
 
The man in the corner's head jerked up when the table clattered, and for a few moments gazed with fierce, yellow eyes before turning back to look at the street. He wasn't angry, or even annoyed, he simply always had an intense, fiery quality to his eyes. Even old as he was, his eyes seemed impossibly older than the rest of him.

He did, however, tense a bit at the sound of the popular Christmas tune: again, not from anger or annoyance, he was trying to push down some other feeling the tune sparked in him. Whatever it was, it made him leave his tea untouched. The man allowed himself to stew in wherever the song took him, and when the nearby birdman finished his tune, he glanced back at the stranger from beneath his heavy brows.

He opened his mouth, and nearly spoke, but then his eyes took on a dreamlike appearance, and he turned back to the window, with the pen in his hand still uncapped, and the pages before him still blank. Eventually, perhaps to himself, or perhaps to the stranger, he said in a low, distant voice, "My wife hated that song."
 
Feeling eyes on him, Alexander tensed and turned and faced the older man, immediately noticing his yellow orbs. They were...captivating, reminding him of a cat's. In response to what he said, the avian looked away, embarrassed. "I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."
 
"No," he man shook his head slightly, and looked down at his tattooed hands, "it is alright. I am not upset... the season, you know... and you are not the first person to drop your tray."
 
"You're not a fan of the holidays?" Alexander inquired with a tilt of his feathery head. He took another bite of his cinnamon roll.
 
"I would not say that. I have nothing against them... although, I suppose," the man said, finally capping his pen, "I find them difficult. More than I used to. But they are not all bad, I suppose."
 
Alexander almost asked why this man thought this time of year to be difficult, but dropped it. He barely knew him, and whatever the reason was, it was probably deeply personal. He just chuckled lightly. "Anyway, name's Alexander, what's yours?"
 
"G.M. Dark," the man replied, with a slight nod, "it is good to meet you, Alexander. Are you... from around here?" Dark asked. He wasn't particularly great at small talk, but since they had made introductions, he thought they may as well chat.
 
"Nice to meet you, G.M," Alexander replied. "And, yes, I've lived here for a few years now. I love it. There's always something to do, and so far, everyone's very friendly."
 
"Your daughter works here in this coffee shop?" Alexander asked in surprise. His blue orbs glistened as they widened.
 
"Oh, no," Dark replied, shaking his head, "I am sorry to have confused you. She works in the city, I meant. No, if she worked here, I would sit nearer to the counter." His eyes sparkled when he spoke about his daughter, and he looked down at his tattooed hands, almost as though he were embarrassed.
 
"Oh, it's fine," Alexander smiled, blushing lightly. He finished off his cinnamon bun and drank some cocoa. "It must be very wonderful having your family so close by."
 
"She lives with me, ever since she became a single mother, so I could not keep them closer if I tried," He explained, "but I suppose your family is not near you?"
 
"No, they're a few states over. We still have a good relationship, I just decided to move here when I could," Alexander responded.
 
Dark nodded, "It is a nice place to live. My wife and I used to live in the city, we had a little apartment... we only moved into the suburbs so we could have our house," He, again, glanced out the window, "It is good you keep in touch with your family, though. When I was your age, I did not care much for family." Of course, he didn't know how old Alexander was, but as long as he was younger than his mid thirties, he statement wouldn't have been inaccurate.
 
"Yeah, but everyone's different. I'm glad my family is as supportive as they are, but others aren't as fortunate. I learned that your family is just a group of people who share your genes. You don't have to be forever tethered to them," Alexander said between sips of hot cocoa.
 
Dark inhaled slowly, and leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, "I know that well enough. My wife hardly spoke with her father, when he still lived, and even had my parents lived past my twelfth year, I would not have spoken with them," he looked again towards Alexander with a slight shrug, "My family, daughter and granddaughters notwithstanding, are not, or, were not, found within my genetics."
 
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