A Mortician's Tale

   It was as cold inside the café as it was outside. The coffee wasn’t warming me up, and the barista was very clearly uncomfortable to have to work in that state, seemingly wearing every coat she could find in her closet. People weren’t passing by outside the window, nor did cars; the town was a desolate land that morning.
   When the bell rang, she brushed the snow off her cap and shoulders, but didn’t take off the coat, seeing how the barista and I were dressed and realizing she marked our date to be in an icebox, on the very first snow day of the year. The woman at the counter got up from her stool, but her eyes asserted that she was not going to move further to serve any tables, even more the one I picked, at the very far side of the café.
   There were yellow smiles all around. From me, from her, from the barista. What were any of us doing there, after all?
   — Sorry for not calling out the date. — She said.
   — If you did, I would only know why you didn’t show up, a week from now. — I replied. — We should really ‘one up’ this pen pal thing and start texting instead of just sending letters.
   We both laughed.
   — That, or wait until the yearly weather is determined by the big corporations to actually go on dates. What would be next? Sauna amidst a heat wave?
   — Yeah, — I agreed, — dates are so uncertain. It’s funny that you never really know who you’re going to meet, even if you know the person. People are just like the weather: you never know when hamburgers will fall from the sky.
   — Oh, well, — she giggled, — I guess that’s also the fun part. You know, you told me your voice was good, but now I know why people tell you that.
   — And why is that?
   — Because if you made a podcast, I would’ve fallen in love with you already.
   — Is my writing not enough, then? Throwing you off?
   — My shell is too hard for anything to throw me off. But it doesn’t cover my ears, and that’s the best way to smuggle butter into my heart.
   I smiled, — that smile of mine that’s always trembling because my face is naturally frozen in a constant frown, — when the barista frantically ringed the counter bell to call our attention because she was not going to take the drinks to our table. The girl went there to get them and I had a nice moment to breathe a little bit. What a weird one she was, and what a weird date that was already being. I could have never imagined my great comeback to the singles market would start with a theoretical failure, but there I was, with my hands in my pockets because my coffee turned cold, and its warmth was useless now, wondering how I was supposed to get home if the snow got any worse later on. And that girl just had something about her that was making me strangely uncomfortable, like a little icicle in a big, dense pack of living, pumping, warm meat. Like there was something freezing me from the inside, is what I mean. But something really small.
   She came back to the table with the stuff, and we kept on talking about whatever, nibbling at the food, so it lasts longer, when I said,
   — Don’t you think it’s a little ironic for someone as dead-looking as you to dream of becoming a mortician?
   When she looked up from her half-eaten raisin muffin to my eyes, with her two dead fish eyes like two frozen, black olives coming out from round pieces of raw marble, I felt even weirder. They held back a wintry kind of feeling in a morbid kind of way, and said nothing, though clearly conveying a message; like the somber infinity of space. I couldn’t keep looking, so I blushed and looked down to my food.
   She’s smiling, looking at me. An impossibly large smile of many a white pearls, that do not match the rest of her face, or body, or personality. She smiles amused, noticing how red I’d become.
   — I do think it is. — She giggles. — It’s what destiny put ahead in my path at the moment I was conceived. That’s why I look like this.
   I looked back at her, her eyes, and chuckled at the fact she did indeed look like death; more than the jest made up to be. She had the eyes of a corpse, smelled like moldy closets and, didn’t give off the idea of heat like anybody else would. She was cold like the chilling breeze when you know someone’s going to die, or a bankrupt café with a broken heater on a snow day, or the concept of your partner’s cold feet waking you up in the middle of the night. She was like a novelty human.
   — But in spite of it all, I do have a pretty smile, don’t I? — She said and again we shared a laugh. — Do you want my raisins?
   I accepted the offer and was glad to eat more raisins, since I had picked all out of my "deconstructed muffin". 

   — You two are cute together, — the barista said when we were paying our halves, — and I’ll be taking all the change as tip. Get the hell out of here, now.
   We really were cute then, kicking salt and snow everywhere, strolling around in those creepy gray streets, looking for anything else to do. Our conversation was clicking, but all the warm smiles we shared didn’t really warm us up. She was still cold, and the little icicle she’d planted in my heart turned my insides into icy caves. That whole thing just felt kind of unnatural, maybe a little surreal, and I had to tell her.
   — Yeah, I know. — She sighed, we were resting at the curb. — I just give off this feeling to people. I don’t really have any friends that want to hang out with me, or had any love interests that went past the first date. My whole family is like this, and I guess I just had to be part of it too.
   — Are they all morticians?
   — It’s a long line of lawyers. — She said, and we chuckled. — But I have made peace with this... condition of mine. This is just who I am, and I’m fine with it. I like being who I am.
   — I also like who you are. — I said. — But I have to wonder if I kissed you right now, your lips would be as cold as a corpse’s.
   — You bet they are.
   So we kissed, and despite the wind blowing cold against us that whole time, her lips were warm and so were her hands, radiating heat through the cotton gloves. Our kiss was like every other kiss I’ve ever had, and when we stopped, the same giggling, the same one-liners, the same shining eyes, it was all there; she was as human as anybody else. When we started walking again, though, the coolness came back. My blood was warmer, but my soul shivered, and I’m pretty sure she was already expecting something like that, because at no moment in that whole date she seemed to directly return any of my advances. She never said “I like you” back, never encouraged a next time, never asked from me anything I had given her that day. But, when we were walking around the frozen lake, her sweaty palm against mine inside my coat pocket, she squeezed my arm a little and said, watching some kids throwing pebbles at the ice,
   — You know, I really like raisins.