Snow Falling On Leaves

Lone man hunches over the well oiled mahogany bar. Searching his cell for company.  He didn't expect to be alone.  Not tonight.  Not last year.

Work boots, new, suede buckskin cause me to wonder about him.  Was this a life harder than he had imagined?  He is in the time of Rembrandt.  Darkness. Poignant light. Solemn. Had his wife also died?

Frescos blanket the walls with tinges of gold and sienna.

He reaches for his baseball coat pocket.  It is 33 degrees outside.  Glasses, a common companion of the over forty set.  His gym-toned arms bespeak a man more than solid.  Tee-d in a soft mint green shirt, he does not want to be alone this evening. 

She pours a martini.  Dry, no olive. After an hour or so, they leave Chez's.  The evening is at once quiet.  No one else is around.  Not even in the parking lot.  No cars, save their two.

A clear night with the blackest sky. He looks up.  Her eyes follow.  A UFO hovers over the parking lot.  Almost as quickly as it came, it is gone.  Then turn toward Chez's and the lights go out.  Then slowly turn toward their cars.  The cars are gone.