Left, right, left, right. She walks as snow permeates the clangor streets of New York City, New York. She reaches a hustling crosswalk, ear-buds in, benumbed hands in the pockets of her tepid, coal black trench coat. The lower half of her face was concealed with a down-covered scarf, given to her by him. It was December 24, Christmas Eve.

The red crosswalk light transitioned to green and the busy bodies began to stir. She looked down to her livid rain boots and ambled. Next thing she knew papers flew everywhere, for she had knocked into a cranky, cantankerous businessman. After recollecting the baron’s papers and having made not-so-pleasant eye contact with him, she continues on, only to pause shortly in front of a dainty cafe as a whirlwind of minty-freshness halted her in her tracks. She proceeds in.

Taking a seat in the far right corner near the display window, she takes in the warmth. The cafe is quiet yet busy as waiters and waitresses are swerving around tables fulfilling customers’ needs and baristas are juggling the numerous orders behind the counter. A waitresses walks towards her with a cordial smile, asking her if she would like her usual peppermint mocha topped with whip cream with a sprinkle of dark chocolate curls.

Pausing the music, she removes her ear-buds from her ears and neatly places them in her pocket, knowing that the ear-buds would be tangled up the next time she would take the them out. She peers out the transparent window at the descending snowflakes. The jubilant faces of young children greet her as they past by, their parents accompanying them with bags of motley colored wrapped presents. The waitress comes back with her peppermint mocha, steam rising, the minty smell surrounds her, the cool aroma filling her nostrils.

The crisp air disperses through as a statuesque man strides in from the gilded doors of the cafe. The usual strands of hair that falls above his eyes are now slicked back. He settles down at the table in front of her, his broad back facing her. He listens to the music from the ear-buds as his fingers dance across the table as if it were a grand piano. She can tell what song he was playing, Pachelbel's Canon. That was their song. They would always play it on the piano together. Times are different now.

It was only a mere 4 years ago since the accident. Before that, her life was at its prime: She got accepted into John Hopkins University, one of the most prestigious schools for medicine and her boyfriend was coming back from serving in the Navy. Prior to enlisting, he and her would always go to this French cafe called Forget Me Not. They made a promise that no matter what, they would never forget each other, always remember each other. If only that night had not happened, things would still be the same, things would still be normal.

She looks up at the back of his head again. He checks his gold watch then a waiter comes by with his usual: black coffee. He takes a small sip. The scorching coffee slightly burns his upper lip but the back of his head nods in agreement with his taste buds.

She peers at him again, only this time he is with a woman who is seated in front of him as they seem immersed in a conversation. She inhales the minty aroma and takes a sip. The sweet peppermint taste penetrates her mouth, the cooling sensation disperses throughout her body. Her upper lip was partly covered with whipped cream.

A couple years ago at this cafe, she had whip cream on her lips, he would lean across the table and wipe it off for her, but that’s not going to happen. He is here, but he is not here. She licks the whip cream off.

Gazing over at him, he is now holding the woman’s hand. Her pink tinted cheeks turns a rosy color.On her delicate hand, her ring fingers bares a 7-karat engagement ring. Last year that woman didn’t have that ring. She takes her last sip of heaven in a cup, then gets up. Walking past him, she feels the sudden urge to turn around and face him. She feels the urge to ask him why, why can’t things be the way it used to be. However, some things just aren’t meant to be.

She exits the French cafe, through the doors, into the now hushed streets of New York City, New York. It is late and most of society is fast asleep, waiting for Christmas to arrive. As for her, she is just waiting for next year, the next Christmas Eve, the next time she will get to see him. She walks on. Left, right, left, right.