Tea and Cakes

The first time he saw her he thought he’d imagined it.

The door was opposite the café he worked in, waiting tables, and it never opened. There were rumours of what was behind it – a ruined castle, a mansion with a crazy old man living in there still. The walls ran all away round, and were too high for anyone to be able to climb. No one tried either. Not even the local kids. The place just cried out to be left alone.

It was a Tuesday morning, and he was in at 6am to open up. The cobbled streets were empty; the sun was only just up but was shining brightly on the whitewashed walls of the houses in the village. He was only half awake. He heard a creaking sound behind him, and looked around in time to see the door shut and a vision in white disappear down the street, long black hair flowing behind her. He rubbed his eyes, convinced he was seeing things, and carried on putting out the tables for the busy day ahead.

It was the tourist season, and the café was packed all day. He watched the door for a little while, but soon forgot about it as the customers poured in, keeping him on his feet all day.

The next day he opened up the café again, but this time he kept his eye on the door across the street. He was ready when it opened, the creak of old metal grating his teeth as the door opened just a slither, just enough for her to slide through. She was dressed in white again, a loose tunic over loose white trousers. This time he saw her face and was struck dumb. She was beautiful. He wanted to call out to her, to find out who she was, but he found himself unable to move, and again she disappeared down the street, light on her feet and clearly in a rush.

He swapped shifts so that he was always opening the café. Every morning he saw her. Every morning he tried to talk to her. Every morning she just slipped away down the street.

Two weeks after he first saw her he left a white flower in the handle of the door after she’d left. He didn’t see her return, but when he remembered to look up in the afternoon the flower was gone.

The next morning she smiled at him as she left, but still slipped away without letting him speak. Before the first customers arrived he popped up to the flower stall on the market and picked out two pink flowers, leaving them attached to the door before opening up the café again. He looked for her all afternoon, but didn’t see her return. The flowers were gone by the end of the lunchtime rush, and the following morning he was rewarded with another smile as she disappeared down the street.

On the third day he left her three flowers, on the fourth four. Every day the flowers were taken, and she would smile at him as she left. On the twelfth morning he followed her. He closed the café and ran after her. She ran nimbly through the twists and turns of the cobbled streets, and he turned a corner after her just in time to see her throw herself into the arms of another man, and watched them disappear through a plain, unremarkable, wooden door.

He turned and walked away, stopping at the flower seller to buy a dozen yellow roses, the symbol of dying love and jealousy. He slipped them in the handle of the door as he returned to work. There they remained, drying in the hot summer sun.

~~~

Based on the picture dracula@home taken by extranoise.

This was written for Flickr Fiction Friday. Other pieces from the same picture have been written by Donal, Elisa, and Chris.