seasons

9: coalesce

Song: Sugar by Maroon 5

Sicily once told me she couldn't think of anywhere she would belong.

In August, I held her body of skin and bones in my arms in the hospital, and she told me she found out where she belonged; she belongs with me.

The December snow from yesterday made walking to see her difficult.

I walked through the cafe's door and four children, all of whom were different ethnicities, between the ages of five and ten, latched onto my legs.

The Martins owned a decent-sized coffee shop called Midnight Cafe a five-minute walk from my house in Bridgeport. It was, undeniably and by far, the best cafe to go to for literally anything.

Feeling hungry? Go to Midnight Cafe.

Feeling thirsty? Go to Midnight Cafe.

Just got dumped? Go to Midnight Cafe.

Just got engaged? Go to Midnight Cafe.

Midnight Cafe was decorated by local artists, a center of refuge for people of all kinds, equipped with a bed in the back if you need a place to stay, and bursting with life. It had a homey, cottage-like feel that made it easy to love. Fluffy pillows hugged couches to relax on and velvet curtains hung lazily against the windows. Everything had a bohemian flare with a bit of class. It was perfect. It only helped that Nate and Matt Martin, Sicily's dads, made the best damn food in the entire world.

Sicily stood behind the quaint counter humming to herself while decorating a cupcake with saffron colored frosting.

Her cheeks were full and rosy, her arms toned with muscle and warmed by a snug, cable-knit sweater.

I laughed and hugged each one of Sicily's siblings, and went to the counter.

Her back was still turned, her hair pulled into a mass of curls at the top of her head. I saw the white ink of a lotus flower peek at me from behind the piercings on her ear. I instinctively touch my own tattoo, hidden beneath my tar colored beanie.

"I'll have a hot date to go please," I said aloud, startling Sicily.

"Hmm," she laughed, turning around,"Maybe you'll get lucky after my shift Conners."

She had frosting on the side of her lip and it glinted teasingly at me.

"Babe," I whispered leaning in, "you've got a little something on your lip."

Her eyes stared at me mischievously, as she flirted, "Be a doll and get it for me?"

I conceded with pleasure, kissing her lips and effectively wiping the frosting off with my tongue.

"Mmm, lemon flavored," I said against her lips.

"Uncle Cam! Emmie-poo is devouring my sister again!" yelled a petite Irish boy with eyes as emerald as spring leaves and hair red as crimson. I peered down sheepishly at Sicily's youngest brother, Kinsale.

My brother popped his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows raised tauntingly with a smirk on his face,

"Emmie-poo, you know the rules. Not face-devouring until after Sissy's shift."

"Shove it, rat-face."

"We're identical twins, moron. You just insulted yourself."

"Dammit."

A gentle laugh slipped out of my girlfriend's lips, causing Cam and me to join in.

Everything was warm.

Sicily was warm and soft and most importantly, confident.

She looked healthy and happy as she danced in a messily tied, flour-covered apron to the old record player in her parent's coffee shop.

I took her hand and spun her around, laughing despite the audience.

Customers around us started to dance. We spun and twirled and hopped. It was warm and comforting.

"Alright, alright," Sicily said, turning away from me, "I've got to get back to work, and you, lover-boy, have a psych essay to write."

I groaned but walked over to my designated table, a mosaic mess of constellations and geometric colors, to get to work.

Hours passed and I didn't even notice.

Sicily had that affect on me; I could be with her for six hours straight and it would feel like no time passed at all.

She looked at me from across the room and smiled. Her teeth still had a tiny gap in the front. I loved it just as much as the rest of her.

I thought back to the time I first saw her more than a year ago and smiled to myself.

She made me feel alive.