Tiger

The rain tapped gently against the café window, a rhythmic patter that underscored the quiet murmur of early morning patrons. Outside, the streets shimmered, puddles collecting the glow of flickering street lights, their golden halos stretching and breaking apart with each ripple. Dawn pressed weakly against the thick clouds, its light dulled, barely managing to cast a glow over the city. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods, a stark contrast to the damp chill beyond the glass.

Mary and Hank sat side by side in a small corner booth, the narrow space forcing them close. The curve of Hank’s broad shoulder pressed gently against her, his presence a wall of warmth. But even pressed against him, she shivered slightly. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her fork, and Hank saw it . . . just a slight quiver, but enough to make his chest tighten. Mary had always been strong, but now… now she was fragile, like fine china held together by sheer will.

Before her rested a slice of coffee and walnut cake, its lone candle flickering softly, the tiny flame dancing like a whisper of warmth against the cool air. She exhaled slowly, watching the curl of smoke unfurl as the candle burned low.

“Make a wish,” Hank said, his deep voice a gravelly murmur.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “At sixty-three? What more is there to wish for?” Yet, she closed her eyes, lips moving silently over an unspoken hope before she blew the candle out. The flame wavered, flickered, then vanished. A thin trail of smoke spiralled up, curling like an afterthought before it disappeared.

Hank shifted slightly, his massive, calloused hand covering hers, engulfing her frail fingers in warmth. He had noticed how cold they were. Too cold. The worry settled in his chest like a stone, but he said nothing. She was too stubborn to admit it, and he was too scared to ask.

“Happy birthday, Tiger,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath was warm against her cheek. His scent . . . rain, leather, and something unmistakably him . . . settled around her like an old memory. He pressed a kiss to her temple, gentle but lingering, his grip on her hand tightening as if afraid to let go.

Mary let out a soft, breathy laugh, weak but full of warmth. “Hank, not so rough,” she scolded, though there was no real force behind it. “I’m not as tough as I used to be.”

“Nah,” Hank rumbled, shaking his head. “Ya still tough. Always be tough.”

She tried to roll her eyes, but her smile wavered at the edges. Hank saw it . . . the exhaustion creeping in, the weight of something unspoken pressing her down. Around them, the world continued as it always did . . . a young couple shared a croissant at the next table, an elderly man turned the crisp pages of his newspaper, a waitress hurried past balancing plates of eggs and toast. The café hummed with life, but for Hank, there was only Mary. Only ever Mary.

Hank reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a small, neatly wrapped package. He slid it across the table, watching her carefully.

“Open it,” he urged, voice softer now.

She hesitated, then lifted the wrapping with delicate fingers, unfolding the paper with a care reserved for fragile things. Inside, resting against the folds, was a simple silver locket. Her breath hitched as she traced its smooth surface, fingertips trembling slightly.

Hank reached forward, cupping her chin gently, tilting her face toward his. “I love ya, Mary,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “With all my self.” He paused, searching her face. “You still pretty as the day I met ya.”

She lowered her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, Hank, you always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

She kissed his hand, pressing her lips to the rough skin of his knuckles, her eyes closing for a brief moment. A hundred memories lay between them, woven into every touch, every unspoken word. Hank’s brows furrowed as he gently rubbed her hands between his own. The cold wouldn’t leave them.

“Ya hands are freezin’,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He hated how it made his chest tighten, the way it stirred somethin’ fearful inside him. “Ya warm enough, Tiger?”

Mary quickly retracted her hands. “I’m fine.” She lied. “However, it’s a bit early for cake. Do you mind if we have this to go?”

Hank’s mind swam through the events of the previous day, like an old home movie playing in his mind’s eye. Mary skipping breakfast, not finishing a sandwich, falling asleep in front of the TV, her dinner cold on the tray on her lap. When had she last eaten properly? He didn’t want to press her, not again, the last time had caused an argument, not on her birthday. She was so stubborn sometimes. Hank swallowed his worry.

“Sure. If that’s what m’birthday gal wants”, said Hank, his deep gravely voice even lower than usual.

Mary glanced down, tucking the remaining slices of cake in a napkin before sliding them into her handbag. Even that small act seemed to take effort, her fingers fumbling slightly. Hank pretended not to notice.

“We’ll bring it along. Effie’ll be over later.”

Mary’s eyes widened slightly. “Effie’s coming?”

Hank groaned, smacking his forehead. “That was supposed to be a surprise,” he admitted sheepishly. “Ah, well. Let’s get ya home before ya turn to ice.”

He rose, manoeuvring his enormous frame through the cramped space, his presence almost too big for the café. The man behind the till, Peter, caught his eye and grinned. “Hey, Hank, you and the missus ready to settle up?”

Hank returned the smile, though the old brown envelope in his pocket felt thinner than it had at the beginning of the week. “Morning, Pete. Yep. What’s the damage?” He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving the battered envelope. His heart sunk to discover there was only a dollar note inside. That wasn’t possible, he was sure he had seen at least ten dollars in there just last night. His old memory wasn’t something he could hope to rely on any more. Hank was four years older than Mary. What he would give to be sixty three again. He shoved a shovel-sized hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a palm full of loose change.

Peter’s gaze flickered between the coins and Hank’s face. Then, he shook his head. “Not today Hank. This one’s on the house. A birthday present for Mary. "

Hank’s lips pressed together. He wanted to argue, protect his pride. It knotted his throat. Pete could see his hesitation.

“You know Hank, my ol’dad was probably your biggest fan. I think he would have liked to have had the opportunity to buy Mary a slice of birthday cake. What’dya say, aye? For my ol’dad?”

“That’s real kind of ya, Pete. Ya ol’ man was a good guy. Real good.”

Peter waved him off with a grin. “My dad used to say nobody ever hit the ring like you. Freight-Train Malone he called you. He used to tell me some tall stories about you Hank”. Said Peter, a huge grin cutting his face in two. “Boy, Hank, did he tell me some stories… I think, near the end, he got a little confused, mixed up. It was expected. The doctor warned us, said we were lucky he was as lucid as he was…” 

Peter coughed a short laugh as a memory hit him. " You, know, he once said the funniest thing. Told me about a time you fought four men at once, just for charity. Took them all down, one by one.”

Hank chuckled, pocketing the envelope. “Yeh, sounds ya ol’man got a few details wrong. It was for charity though… The orphanage need’ a new roof and the council wouldn’t fork a cent. I had some boxers that had been wanting a chance at me, gave’um a call. Mary arranged the tickets, money, she was good at that stuff. Wasn’t four boxers though.” Hank gave Pete a friendly nod. “Thanks again for the cake Pete”. He turned his huge frame around to face the door. It was like watching the earth rotating on its axis.

Peter leaned in, intrigued. “How many was it, then?”

The wind outside surged, rattling the windows. Hank was already back with Mary. The café door creaked as Hank opened it, Mary stepped toward it. The worsening storm swallowed the sounds inside, forcing Peter to raise his voice as he called after him.

“Wait… Hank! How many?”

Hank opened his mouth, about to reply, the storm outside lessened, the wind dipping down again. The Cafe was now as quiet as a church. The patrons shifted their attention to Pete after hearing him raise his voice.

“Oh, it was six. Four in the first round. The last two in the second.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Six?”

Mary smiled up at him, her voice excited. “Oh, I remember that one, Hank. For the children at the orphanage.”

Peter shot a glance at Mary, then back at Hank.

“Bye, Pete. Thanks again,” Hank said, tipping an imaginary hat. He stepped out with Mary, closing the door behind them.

Peter stood there, his arms slowly dropping to his sides, his mouth slightly open. “Six?” he murmured to himself, still trying to wrap his head around it. What else had his dad told him about Hank?

Outside, Hank popped open an old umbrella, tugging Mary in tight against him as the rain poured harder. “Stay close, Tiger. Ain’t lettin’ ya get wet.” He pulled her in, his massive arm wrapped around her like a shield, guiding her down the slick pavement, their figures disappearing into the storm.