Autumn has drawn on her calling shawl and comes tapping at the door. As always, I am relieved to see her melancholy smile, her tender hazel eyes. I offer her a basket of fruit. She brings me a bundle of kindling and a handful of acorns.
She takes her place at the table and we talk of old times, when I was so much younger than her. I guess we are now pretty much the same age, and I feel I worship her less, understand her more.
She looks at the fruit basket and asks of Summer’s visit, and if I fell for the easy charm of her warm embrace. I admit that Summer actually undressed me for the first time in years, then she wants to know every detail of every quickened heartbeat. Her cheeks flush at some of the things I confess, then she touches a finger to my lips and tells me of Old Lady Winter’s plans to visit, and I shiver, and she laughs.
We spend our day kicking up leaves and strolling hand in hand by the canal, our evening singing together in the dusk light and sharing smoky kisses. Nevertheless, I feel things are not quite how they should be. An unfamiliar frown tells me she is holding something back.
When pressed, she tells me that it’s nothing. But when I put my hand up her sweater she packs her stuff and slams the door so hard it splinters in the frame, knocks out a window for good measure, and says she hopes Old Lady Winter bites my fucking ass.