A Looming White on Asphalt

Jarek shivered, even inside the bookstore, the draft from the main doors a constant, icy threat to the illusion of warmth. He nudged a stack of glossy 'Christmas Cookery' books into a straighter line with his knee, a dull ache throbbing there from an old skating injury. The scent of pine and cinnamon, pumped subtly through the ventilation system, was meant to be comforting. Instead, it made his throat feel tight, a cloying sweetness he couldn't quite place.

He watched the handful of early evening shoppers, their movements jerky, almost frantic, as if the first snowfall had triggered some primal retail instinct. A woman with a fur-trimmed hood snatched up a copy of 'Yuletide Tales,' her expression grim, as if preparing for battle rather than celebration. He wondered if she actually liked Christmas, or if she, like him, was just performing the motions.

"Still here, then?" Siddiq, his co-worker, appeared beside him, a mug of steaming something clutched in both hands. The steam fogged his glasses. Siddiq always seemed to appear out of nowhere, especially when Jarek was wallowing.

"Just finishing the new arrivals," Jarek mumbled, gesturing vaguely at a cart piled with oversized biographies. His fingers felt stiff, cold from handling the endless plastic wrap.

Siddiq hummed, took a careful sip. "Got your shopping done? Mum's been hounding me. My little sister wants some ridiculous virtual reality headset. Might as well ask for a spaceship."

Jarek grunted. "Haven't even started. Probably just get everyone gift cards. Saves the drama."

Siddiq chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Smart. Mine expects a thoughtful, artisanal, ethically-sourced… thing. Probably made of recycled tree bark. And then she'll complain it's not a spaceship."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the soft murmur of the store wrapping around them. Jarek felt the familiar dread unfurl in his stomach. The endless expectations, the forced cheer, the quiet competition to out-give. He just wanted a few days off, a warm blanket, and to finish that economics paper.

Across the city, in her small, warm bakery tucked off Corydon, Martha hummed along to a crackling radio playing a tinny rendition of 'Jingle Bells.' Her hands, flour-dusted and calloused, moved with a practiced rhythm, folding sticky dough into intricate braids. The air was thick with the rich, comforting odour of yeast, toasted nuts, and the sharp, bright tang of orange zest. Martha preferred these early December days. Before the true frenzy, before the entire city seemed to descend into a desperate clamour for sugar plums and gingerbread men.

A dull ache throbbed in her lower back, a constant companion this time of year. She straightened, pushing a stray strand of grey hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint white smudge. She’d been doing this for thirty years. Thirty Christmases of flour on the floor, the smell of burnt sugar, the endless stream of faces, some beaming, some weary, all seeking a little bit of comfort in a paper bag.

A small bell above the door tinkled. It was Lena, her usual customer, a young woman with bright, curious eyes and a perpetually hopeful smile. Lena always bought a single shortbread biscuit, meticulously wrapped in tissue paper, as if it were a fragile jewel.

"Good evening, Martha!" Lena's voice was bright, almost musical. "Smells wonderful as always."

"Evening, dear," Martha replied, her voice rougher than Lena's, worn down by years of early mornings. "The usual?"

Lena nodded, pulling out a small, worn purse. "Please. It’s my little ritual. First shortbread of the season. Makes it feel… real."

Martha smiled faintly as she carefully selected a biscuit, still warm from the oven. Real. Yes, the shortbread was real. The ache in her back was real. The biting cold outside was real. All the manufactured magic of the season, however, felt increasingly distant, like a story told in a language she no longer fully understood.

Okiya wiped down the counter at 'The Daily Grind', the clatter of ceramic mugs and the hiss of the espresso machine a familiar backdrop. She watched Lena walk out, clutching her tiny package, a genuine smile still gracing her lips. It was nice to see that sometimes, the simple things still landed.

The cafe was busy, a steady stream of people escaping the deepening gloom outside. Christmas carols, slightly off-key, drifted from the cheap speakers above. Okiya preferred the silence, the quiet hum of the refrigerators. But management insisted on 'festive ambiance.'

A group of students huddled in a corner, textbooks spread over a sticky table, intermittently glancing at their phones. One girl, her scarf still wrapped tightly around her face, shivered even indoors. Okiya remembered that feeling, the way Winnipeg could steal the heat right out of your bones.

She thought about her own family, the big, chaotic gatherings they had planned. Cousins flying in, board games, aunties bringing too much bannock and cranberry sauce. It wasn’t the picture-perfect Christmas from the holiday movies, all sparkling snow and quiet reverence. It was loud, messy, full of teasing and laughter, and sometimes, a little too much wine. And she loved it.

A man in a thick, plaid jacket stepped up to the counter, his breath still visibly misting. "Double espresso, please. To go. And something… with extra sugar. I need to wake up for this. The shopping, you know."

Okiya nodded, already pulling a cup. "I know the feeling. Long list?"

He sighed, a puff of white. "Too long. And every year, I swear it gets longer. Used to be fun. Now it's a marathon."

She passed him the espresso, the bitterness a sharp contrast to the sugary pastry she selected. "Maybe it’s less about the list and more about the finish line?"

He paused, a tiny crease forming between his brows, and then a quick, surprised smile broke through. "Huh. Never thought of it that way. Thanks, Okiya."

She watched him go, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. Maybe, she thought, the shortbread and the sweet pastry were just small totems, anchors in the rush. A way to make something real, even if only for a second.

Jarek clocked out, the chime of the door a release. The city outside was a harsh, unforgiving canvas of black asphalt and the faint, dusty sheen of snow that clung to every surface. The wind, now fully unleashed, stung his exposed cheeks. He pulled his toque lower, hunching his shoulders.

The festive lights, previously a distant glow, now seemed to press in, a blinding assault of red, green, and blue. Each flash on a storefront window, each twinkle on a lamppost, felt like an obligation, a silent demand to feel something. Joy. Peace. Goodwill. He felt none of it. Just the cold, deep and pervasive, and a profound weariness that settled in his bones.

He passed a busker, huddled in an alcove, his guitar case open, a few coins glinting dully within. The man’s voice, raspy and thin, wrestled with the wind, trying to deliver a carol about silent nights and holy stars. Jarek fumbled in his pocket, found a two-dollar coin, and dropped it into the case. The busker didn’t look up, just kept playing, his eyes fixed on some distant point above the traffic.

As Jarek walked, the city lights blurred, reflecting off the dampness in his eyes. He wasn't sure if it was the wind, or the thought of another empty flatbread for dinner, or the relentless, forced cheer of the season, but something in him felt close to cracking. The cold wasn't just outside tonight. It was creeping in, settling deep, and he wondered if there was anything, truly anything, that could thaw it before the new year came.