Miss Brunner talked death on a cold dull December afternoon. As darkness descended outside of the café they were sat in her pebble like eyes seemed to sink within her pale protruding cheek bones. The moon Jerry surmised must be gradually approaching its Winter Solstice position. The failing evening light fell on her faded black retro clothes. She was presently laughing at his forced attempt at conversation ( so he thought ) Yet still he smiled ?
He had once admired her occasional quite optimism, restrained passions, carefully considered comments, self awareness, mature attitude despite her years, her dry humour, elegant out look, lack of ego, detached beauty, musical prowess, varied image, social skills, loyal friendship, discretion, guarded emotions and honest opinions. Times had changed though , but Jerry was quite safe in his assumption that he was more than likely still in love with a " ghost "
Back in the real world his tea was weak, and his scone dry, jam too sweet. He was cold and his mind slid elsewhere as Miss Brunner tilted her head to one side as she delivered another long monologue of entropy. Her lips were full but dry. His hands were cold.
Contemplating the past year he couldn't decide on a single mood to sum up his tumultuous year. Would It all be good in the end ? If only he'd known from the start. Again Winter was early and vicious, galvanising his new found realities, but he also found he was surely waiting for something he didn't know how to deal with, despite having had plenty of time to prepare for it. Yet oddly at the same time he completely failed to realise what this situation was ! His stomach felt knotted, his legs felt weak as festive lights illuminated the cobbled streets. It was nearly dark as he felt slight relief on leaving.
It was true, he was at a low ebb. Many weeks had passed since the " Future House " debacle. Healing at his age took an age... Would he be " retired " from the game by Christmas ? The shadowy young figure in the garden still haunted him. Every teenager took this form to him know. Youth had him surrounded it seemed. Whatever the outcome his shady superiors surely envisaged his days as numbered. He knew he was swimming against the tide. Time to lie low. It wasn't in him to perform at the moment, even if the opportunity arose. Rock bottom. A time of danger.
January evergreens silhouetted against a white Winter sky. A weak damp wind. Nervous expectation. Lost faith ? Still waiting for a point blank shot that may never come. Only time could pull him through. As ever time would be the filter. Soon he would get the feeling for things again. Probably to rapidly. There would need to be counter weights...
Suddenly ( and wasn't it always that way ? ) a golden nugget of information was casually dropped by an close friend. Motions were set in place. Apparently they had started without him in Libya. Time to side step the obvious dilemma and chase the aftermath for a guaranteed success ? He couldn't decide which excited him most; the prospect of foreign travel demanded by his next mercy mission, or the fact that the ever adorable Mitzi was to be his accomplice ( an ever formidable weapon he thought ) Maybe it was just the fact something new had arisen, however torrid. A distraction after all was a distraction!
Somewhere a T.V was blaring out an awful cover version of a Boy George classic. Jerry expected it was the product of a Christmas talent show. He didn't even bother look up...
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