Snowy Mocha (fiction)

It was the fourth of December, chilly and wet. I was all done up, much like everyone else on the sidewalk, boots of some sort, with extra slush stuck on your toe. Gloves, scarves, hats, and fluffy, poofy, thick, bring-it-on-winter coats. Somehow, the fact remains that no matter how warm the scarf, my nose would turn red, and go numb, as the sharp wind scorched my cheeks.
The hustle of the street buzzed past me, and I barely noticed the red fat man ringing a bell for change in front of the coffee shop I had just entered. I stood by the door, un-dressing my outer layers. There seemed to be an overwhelming mood, almost too bizarre for seven-thirty in the morning diners. Just about every table was taken, and all were warming their hands over hot chocolate and coffee mugs. Only a few usuals were eating, and it looked like the cook ran out of bacon. I made my decision, and sat on a stool next to the dirty, slumped, bearded figure of a man.
Holly. Holly was the name of the waitress dressed in the cliche teal French maid outfit, and not only an apron, but matching socks. I felt bad for her, having to serve cold coffee to bums in a slum corner of town, and then for her name. Holly. An unfortunate name for anyone around this time of year, by the looks of her, she wasn't merry or jolly at all. Instead an air of teenaged female angst emanated from her black spiky hair, nose ring, and smoky eyeliner.
"Mocha, please." I said to her as she moved her hand onto her hip. She looked a little bit joyed that someone in this joint had the decency to ask politely. I assume she's been deciphering grunts and coughs all morning.
"Two-seventy nine. Here's your mocha." Though her voice matched the crude aura of the rest of the place, her eyes perked up a bit. Then one in the back, yelled for more toast and she was gone again.
I finished my cup, and left a three dollar tip, sinceI had a five and a one. Making my way to the door, I was ready to leave, and yet I felt bad to leave her with nothing more than memories and a tip. Outside, a glimmer of snow blew into my eye, and froze my eyelashes. I stalled for not two seconds, and the Christmas sprirt got the better of me.
It must have looked funny from the inside of the small shop, especially to all the grumps who thought I was crazy enough, being polite. A grown man, rolling three odd-sized balls of slush and snow. It was all part of the plan though. I was just about putting the finishing touches on the holly-man I was constructing when I noticed a gathered crowd of watchers from the inside, and Holly made her way to the front of the gathering. I turned around, and revealed a snowman, dirty with street mud and garnished with a face of Holly leaves from the craft store next door.
I looked at her, and despite the wind, and cold, she smiled.
"Merry Christmas." I said. It took her a while, but her teeth finally bled through her shivering smile. Her eyes as cold as they were thanked me. And that was that.
The crown of mumblers didn't understand, I went on with my Christmas shopping, and she went back to orders, with a smile in her heart and a snowman out front.