We Meet Again

The week before Christmas, and here she was, at the busiest of box stores, after a long day of work, fighting to get that perfect thing her nieces wanted. Not something they had asked Santa for, no, that was their parents' problem; something special that maybe they’d remember one day when they were grown and they’d tell their children about. Or whatever. At this point Murra just wanted to get home and eat dinner in her pyjamas. 

After checking out through the cash, she gratefully headed to the sliding doors. With a blast of heat to the face, a whooshing of cold air she said “behold, snow!” Followed by a sigh. It wasn’t just regular snow, no, of course not. It was a snow storm that had evidently begun somewhere between the wrapping paper aisle and toys, she supposed. Murra drove her cart headlong into the fray, slush binding the cart wheels almost immediately. Stupidly,  she’d worn her runners instead of boots. To be fair, the weather had not warned of this event when she got dressed. It’s winter Murra, wear boots. Her mother’s voice from beyond, scolded. “I’m nearly forty years old, Ma, I can choose my own footwear without your input, thank you.” She huffed and shoved the cart. Flipping the hood of her coat up, she shoved some more. The wheels were stuck in the slush. She’d never get home at this rate. 

Suddenly, a puffy coated and toqued figure appeared, grabbing the front of her cart and pulling it free. 
“Where to?” A man’s voice shouted. 
“To the left, three rows over,” she called back. The tall lights of the parking lot shone in her eyes, blurred by sideways falling snowflakes, she couldn’t seem more than a dark outline of a person. Murra let the stranger help her to her car. She flashed her car lights and honked the horn with the key fob as they approached her vehicle. When they arrived they took shelter under the raised lid of the trunk of her SUV. 
“Thanks so much for your help,” she said, flipping the hood from her head. 
“Murra, is that you,” the man asked. 
“I am Murra, but who are you?” She replied. “I can’t see you with the light shining behind your head.” She squinted and bobbed back and forth a bit to get a better view. 
“It’s Greg,” he said, pivoting to be kitty-corner to the light. 
“Greg!” She squealed, despite herself. Greg was her first serious boyfriend. They were together ages eighteen through twenty-three for her and twenty through twenty-five for him. 
“I’m in town for the holidays,” he replied. Even though he’d only moved to a neighbouring town after they’d broken up, they’d never run into one another before. 
“Want a ride back to your parents?” She offered, smiling. They’re breakup was amicable and she was happy to see his face again. 
“Ya, sure, thanks,” he replied, smiling, just as much, back. 
After brushing off the car, she carefully worked her way out of the treacherous parking lot and out to the main road, that was mostly, sorta plowed, where playing “whose lane is this” didn’t last too long until they turned off onto a side street, that for certain, hadn’t been plowed. 

Leaving fresh tracks in the snow, Murra pulled up next to the curb in front of Greg’s parents’ place. The house looked much like she remembered. Sturdy brick with a sharply pitched roof. The trees in the yard were taller, of course, and twinkling holiday lights shone round the eaves. 

They sat for a moment in a bit of awkward silence. 
Murra spoke first, “it was great to see you. Thanks for your help.”
Greg replied, “you’re welcome.” He reached for the door handle. “You know, I’d really like to actually do some catching up. Wanna go grab dinner or something?”
She did not want to grab dinner. What she wanted was to go home, get those comfies on and eat a big bowl of Parmesan covered noodles while binge watching her favourite series. But, anti-social instincts aside, her heart was filled with fond feelings for Greg. She was actually struggling to remember why they’d broken up. 
“Okay”, she said. “Want to come over to my place. “I was planning on making p…”
“Parmesan noodles?” Greg jumped in. 
“Ya,” Murra replied, with a grin spreading across her face. “You remembered.”
“I did,” Greg replied. “Sounds good to me.”
“Alright,” Murra said, still smiling. She left the street and got back onto the main road. They were at her cute little war-time bungalow in no time. 

“Nice place,” Greg said. Murra’s Christmas tree sparkled in the front window of her house. They trudged through some drifted snow, carrying her bags, and the couple Greg had, and pulled the screen door open. The snow was deep enough that this was a bit of a struggle. Neither bothered with grabbing a shovel to clear the path. What was the point? It was snowing so hard, it would just need it again in ten minutes. 

Discarding bags and boots, coats and toques, once inside, they looked at each other again, a sort of familiar comfort fell between them. 
“Want a tour?” Murra offered. 
“Sure,” Greg said. 

“Here is the kitchen. It’s small, but works well for me. This orange fish is Marmalade and that’s Sakana, my goldfish,” she said, indicating the other white one, with orange and black splotches. The bowl sat in the small, round, dining table. 
“You named your fish, fish in Japanese?” Greg laughed. 
“I did. How’d you know that?” Murra was surprised. 
“My ex-wife is Japanese.” He replied. 
“Ah,” she responded, then carried on. “Here’s the living room, my office, bathroom, and my bedroom.” They completed the tour at the end of the hallway. Greg stepped into her room. 
“That’s the same dresser,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the imposing piece of oak furniture.”
“Yes,” she said. “Still keeping my clothes safe for me.” She chuckled, suddenly feeling a bit shy. She cleared her throat, “want a drink?”
“Sure,” Greg said. They made their way back to the main part of the house. He followed her into the kitchen. Murra opened the fridge, placing the door between them. She ducked down to see what was on the shelves, though she knew what was on the shelves because she had bought everything in it, including the fridge itself. 

Something was happening here and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face it. Or, maybe it was just fine. Fine and comfortable and familiar and just as things should be. 

“I have white wine, beer, ginger ale, water, milk, and, orange juice in juice boxes,” she stood up again to face, “for my nieces.” Just as the last words left her mouth, Greg reached across the open refrigerator door, grabbed the nape of her neck in that familiar way she remembered, and kissed her. Fifteen years of time and distance faded and they were young and in love again in that moment. 
“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” Greg said when the kiss broke. 
“What, since the parking lot?” She replied, feeling a bit stunned. 
“No, since I was stupid enough to move away without you,” Greg said, looking so serious it made Murra weak. Not knowing what to do, she grabbed two juice boxes, punched the straws into each one and handed one to him. They both took a long pull and swallowed hard. She closed the fridge and leaned her back against the counter, her elbow resting on the sink. 
“Hey, do you remember, did we ever make one of those, if I’m still single when I’m forty, and you’re still single when you’re forty, we’ll marry each other, pacts?” Murra’s eyes danced and her stomach somersaulted. 
“I don’t recall that we did,” Greg replied, raising one eyebrow. 
“Do you think we should make one now?” She asked. 
“I’m already over forty. Am I too late?” He asked. 
“I’m still under forty, so, maybe we could split the difference,” Murra offered, looking coy. 
“Yes. Let’s split the difference,” Greg said, while reaching for her across the narrow kitchen