A Heartwarming Winter Story About A Pair Of Gloves

Expectations.

We all suffer from them. We can’t help but have them.

Berlin hasn’t let me down because I didn’t have a preconceived idea of how this month would be, and yet the word “let down” is in this sentence.

Cold city. Not just because of the weather.

Unadorned, imposing, soulless buildings divide the streets and lay impenetrable and grey looking down on people. Thou must behave, they seem to whisper to passersby. Germans do love rules and order. Even the renegades, so they can break them.

I don’t mind walking in the cold through the long, vast, empty roads to get to the candid little nooks you find in certain neighbourhoods.

But you have to seek beauty here, or you won’t find it.

An Unsuspected Gift

And yet, if you know where to look, you find all sorts of shit happening.

Little, tight communities hidden behind the veil of coldness and pragmatism. You have your bouldering freaks, your passionate musicians, more comedy nights you can count with your fingers, adorable Kinos (cinemas) playing indie films, and the vastest array of beer options I’ve ever seen. God bless the Glühwein.

What Berlin is also good for, is finding gems in the street. From clothing to books, shoes, cutlery, furniture, canvas… People come and go and they leave a trail of who they were behind, waiting to be reclaimed.

The other day I was so cold I thought I had frostbite. I can be dramatic like that. Still, I had to take Snoop Dog the dog for a walk. To my surprise, right outside the flat, I found a perfectly placed pair of soft leather gloves.

I looked around for their owner but the street was dark and empty, as per ush.

They weren’t particularly expensive gloves but they weren’t cheap fake leather ones either. How fortunate, right?

It made me think of this short story I heard once that moved me. I’ve decorated it for our amusement.

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Italian Leather

There’s this elegant fellow who’s worked late on Christmas eve, running to catch the last train to take him home.

‘Home’ he thinks and pictures his beautiful wife. Maybe she’s wearing those golden pearl earrings he bought her when they were still dating. And that little black dress she paid a little more than she wanted to because she said it was “a wardrobe staple”.

He knows she’s gone through a lot of effort to make the house look nice. Candles and soft drapes over the lamps to make it hygge, incense and jazzy music because she knows he likes it. Maybe she’s got a secret preroll for dessert. They’ll sit on the floor on top of the thick rug hugged by cushions and giggle the night away like teenagers. He thinks how privileged they are they can spend Christmas together, alone.

His mouth salivates a little thinking of the beautiful spread waiting for him on the table. The expensive champagne, seafood, buttery mashed potatoes, caramelised brussels sprouts, the wild chicken with a lemon up its arse… And Wolfgang, the hound, patiently waiting under the table safe in the knowledge he’ll be getting some scraps (maybe some good cuts too).

Getting into the last desolate carriage without really breaking a sweat satisfies him. He looks out of the window and admires the glistening virgin snow on every edge, surface and on the ground. He’d like to make angels with his arms and legs. Too late.

In the middle, a beautiful Italian leather glove breaks the monotony of the white.

It’s his.

The train lazily begins to move, accompanied by the sound of a whistle and a rhythmic chug, chug, chug, chug, chug, chug….

He puts his left hand in his pocket and finds the other glove. They were a present from his late mother. He loved her. She gave him a leg-up in life and never made him feel in debt to her for it.

Without hesitation, he throws it out the window and watches it fall next to its twin.

A beaten-down man thinking of nothing, wanting of nothing, is emptying the station bins before finishing his shift. The train takes up speed lifting symmetrical snowflakes into the air and making him look up for a second.

The excruciating silence is broken by the sound of a few fast steps and his laughter.

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This piece was originally self-published on Medium by yours truly.

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