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Shutting the door to my apartment with a definitive click, I walk past the snoozing doorman at the front desk and out into the cold Boston night.
“Sophia Clarke,” I whisper to myself as I square my shoulders and lean into the cold. “It’s just the beginnings of a snowstorm. You are not going to sit in your apartment all alone on Christmas Eve.”
With that fiercely whispered promise in the air, I trudge down the street, and my boots flatten the snow that has gathered on the sidewalk with rapid speed. This morning, it was an inch. But now, it’s more like five with the bulk of it still to come.We’re in for a cold one,as the weatherman—and my father—pointed out.
I draw my soft fawn coat tighter around me, wishing I’d thought to bring a scarf in my haste to leave. I swear, if I’d sat around that apartment moping for a moment longer, I was about to scream. Christmas shouldnotbe spent alone.
Shoving my cold hands deeper into my pockets, I squint through the rapid snowfall that has blanketed the entire street in a layer of pure white, now bathed in the warm yellow of the streetlights and flashing greens and reds of the Christmas decorations. It’s almost like I’m wandering through the center of a newly shaken snow globe. If I wasn’t struggling to suck in a warm breath, I could see this as charming. But I’m just too upset to stop and appreciate it as I usually would.If it weren’t for the bad weather, I’d be home by now.
My stomach rumbles, and for the hundredth time today, I think about how this is not what I expected to do on Christmas. I’m supposed to be eating dinner with my family, not feeling stuck in the city, lonely and hungry.
I tried so hard to get another flight back. I wince at the memory of the incredulous look the woman at the booking-desk had given me when I begged her to get me a different flight.
“They’re all grounded. You’re asking for a Christmas miracle, dear, and I’m not Santa,” she’d said before promptly dismissing me for the next customer in line. I let out a mist-filled sigh, and my stomach rumbles again.
All I have at home are a tub of yogurt and an apple, the rest of my food cleared out since I was supposed to be away until after the new year. I had briefly considered eating those two items, but the thought of yogurt on Christmas eve, when I could have been drinking eggnog and nibbling mom-made shortbread, had propelled me out into the cold night, looking for somewhere— anywhere—to get real food and be around other people.
Misery loves company and all that...
I turn down a street, and I’m met by a group of jolly people, walking home from a Christmas party or on their way to another one. Their laughter juxtaposes my misery, and all of a sudden, I’m the Grinch who wants everyone’s Christmas to be as miserable as mine.Bah Humbug!
Pausing when I hear the tinkle of a bell above a door, I look up and find a pokey little diner across the street. The sign reads a simple, ‘Eddie’s,’ with a flashing neon 24/7 next to it that looks just about ready to give up and die.
I can relate.
Making my way across the deserted street, I can see my breath coming out in puffs of white as I make a beeline to the diner’s door. “Eddie better have roast chicken and pie,” I mutter as I close my hand around the cold steel handle and push my way inside.
It’s warm and...fragrant?A smell that reminds me more of dirty grease traps than chicken and pie.Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. I look around at the faded wallpaper that was once a sunny yellow, and at the worn out, faded seats in the booths. Another sigh escapes me.
Shrugging out of my coat, I make my way to a booth overlooking the street and slide in.
“Know what ya want?” A dull voice asks, just as I lay my coat down next to me.
Glancing up, I’m met by a bored-looking waitress standing by my table, a small notepad in hand, but no pencil in sight. I look at her name tag:Maggie.
“Hey, Maggie. I’d like a miracle, please.” I smile up at her in an attempt to force some cheer into my voice.
Maggie merely stares back at me, and I get the impression she just had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at me.
I sigh yet again.
“OK. No miracles on the menu then. In that case, what would you recommend tonight? Do you have something special for Christmas?” I ask, already knowing what her answer will be.
Predictably, Maggie gives me another one of her looks.
“Eddie just made a batch of mac ‘n’ cheese. There’s also some chicken dumpling soup.” She pauses and looks at me. “Eddie owns this place,” she adds unnecessarily.
“Yes, I gathered that. I like your blouse, by the way.” I try again and looking at it, I’m surprised that I actually do like it.
Maggie blinks down at me. “You do?” she asks uncertainly.
“Yes, I love the fabric and the pattern. Where did you buy it?”
She traces the edge of her neckline absently before replying, “I made it, actually. My mom helped me cut the cloth.”
“You’ve done a great job.”
She shrugs, and I can tell that I’ve embarrassed her.
