A Mug of Winter Cheer

Parish cradles his mug of cocoa in his liver-spotted hands. The cup is made from simple clay, battered and worn. It is befitting a simple carpenter, perhaps. None would guess it was a relic from Parish’s old adventuring days. Or at least, he claims it to be.

He takes a sip of the warm beverage as he looks at the lines on Yazeba’s face. The witch is his dearest and oldest friend, even if she would never admit the same. He knows something is going on with her, but she’s clammed up like an old steel trap. And so, Parish ponders the question:

"How can I help when I don’t know what’s wrong?"

Yazeba clasps her mug in her hands. It is a black mug with a blue and white owl that appears to be scowling painted on the side. The hot coca steams inside, warming her old and wrinkled, but still long and elegant fingers. She stares into the fire watching the flames dance and while she notices Parish, she makes no move to acknowledge him yet. She feels the icebergs inside her shifting and grinding, echoing the quiet noise of the snow blanketing the Bed and Breakfast. She doesn't know what is behind this feeling - perhaps that is the cost of losing your heart she thinks to herself. She is glad to have Parish here, even if that too is a feeling she is not ready to acknowledge.

Across the den from Parish and Yazeba, Mr. Boggs sits with his back upright in a tall chair. He is not wearing a fuzzy sweater like many of the others in the room. Such fuzz would get soggy and matted from the constant drizzle of the perpetual raincloud around his head. He is wearing his trademark suit and tie. The suit is practical. It is water repellent. It is the proper choice of outfit, even on a cold winter day.

Mr. Boggs holds a white porcelain mug in his hands. Written on the mug in black blocky letters is the phrase, "World's Best Employee." This is hyperbole, but it is a fun phrase. It is light-hearted. It is indicative of the kind of person Mr. Boggs thinks others might find fun and engaging.

Mr. Boggs covers the top of his mug with his hand so rain doesn't fall into his hot cocoa as he takes a sip. "Ah," he says. The cocoa tastes good. He enjoys it. He is relaxing. This is how one relaxes. Right?

Demi is up at the crack of dawn, thanks to the sound of shovels.

Looks like I shall be doing less bed, more breakfast.

She flaunts her latest snakeskin robe and addresses the room. "Good Morning Yazeba, Sir Parish and… oh, Mr. Boggs. You’re here, yes. And with your cloud, the only cloud not sprinkling snow. The hired help will surely appreciate that."

She sits down next to Mr. Boggs. "Ah, it is Bring-Your-Own-Mug Day." Glancing up at her bangs, she says to them, "You were right, girls." Then to Mr. Boggs or whoever’s listening: "I have merch from the Clash of the Titans sequel."

She raises her mug (not so much to show it off; she’s expecting it to be filled), and says, "Perhaps you’ve seen it? Clash Gorgon, a film-festival favorite in which I play the gorgon heroine."

As Demi thinks about it, the theme song gets stuck in her head. Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun CLASH …Gor-gonnnnn, she’ll save every one of us…

Mr. Boggs' heart thumps a little faster when Demi greets him. He fondly recalls Sal's play that they starred in together. Their characters had been romantically entwined. Mr. Boggs is adept at separating fiction from reality, but doing so becomes more difficult in the company of the enchanting movie star.

"Ms. Gorgone. Good day," he says, offering her a smile from behind his raincloud. "The precipitation from my cloud appears to always amount to a steady drizzle, no matter the ambient temperature. It does not reduce my visibility too much. Nor does it seem to dampen the surrounding furniture or carpeting, so long as I am careful to maintain the proper angle of my head when I sit or stand. I am still uncertain where it came from, but it is a minor annoyance, at worst. And furthermore..."Mr. Boggs realizes he is rambling somewhat, so he abruptly stops talking, sipping his cocoa to cover the sudden awkward silence. He clears his throat. "Ahem. Yes, I have seen Clash Gorgon. You were quite good in it."

Parish considers Yazeba for another moment before attempting to break the ice. "Do you like the cocoa, Yazeba? I used ceylon cinnamon imported from Sri Lanka, and peppermint leaves from the mountains of Oregon. It is a drink that warms the belly and the soul. A fine treat on a chilly day. I hope you find it pleasing."

Yazeba smiles tightly at Demi and Mr. Boggs. As guests at the B&B, Yazeba tended to withhold the harshest of her comments from them. If they wanted to enact this foolish ritual, let them. Dissuading others of their folly was like carrying water with a sieve.

Yazeba looks at Parish, turning to face him. "Well, ser, I am glad to hear someone still cares to use quality ingredients. The effect is certainly a pleasant flavor. And I'm sure the added expense will give me cause to recall the flavor again when I'm reviewing the ledgers." While her tone is sharp, there is a slight hint of playfulness in her smile now that only an old acquaintance like Parish could spot.

Parish chuckles at Yazeba's jape. "Touché, Yazeba. Let us drink. To our health, and to the continued prosperity of the Bed & Breakfast." He takes a long sip from his mug, settling back in the frog-sized plush recliner. He puts his webbed feet up, warming them by the fire. "We haven't seen you around very much lately. Much 'witchy business' to attend to, I presume?" Parish asks, hoping the leading question gets Yazeba to open up a bit.

Demi is quite proud of that role. "It’s not every day a C-list actress meets a fan," she says."It must not be easy… what you do. I mean, take the film industry. Where would we be without someone to manage the budget? Actors know nothing of money. That’s why we make seven to nine figures per film—so we don’t spend our way into destitution.

"How do you do it, Mr. Boggs? How do you keep the company afloat? Is the cloud over you the manifestation of your constant brainstorm?"

Mr. Boggs adjusts his glasses. "It is not easy. Balancing spreadsheets, filing TPS reports, accounting for inflation and interest accrual. To wit:"

And then Mr. Boggs launches into an incredibly lengthy (and incredibly boring) breakdown of his company's fiscal and fiduciary well-being. Many numbers are quoted, many equations are solved, and the vast majority of it goes right over the heads of anybody who isn't a CPA.At the end of his spiel, Mr. Boggs clears his throat and adjusts his soggy tie. "So, as you can see, I have a lot on my metaphorical shoulders. Somebody's got to do it, else the company would go under. But... it's lonely at the top, and I haven't had much chance to take care of my own needs. You know, this is my first vacation away from the Big City in fifteen years..."

"Yes. Sometimes it seems that there is no end to it." Yazeba pauses and sets down her mug. She leans back as a lit cigar appears in her hand, seemingly out of nowhere. She takes a long puff of smoke and blows it out into the room. She picks a bit of tobacco off her tongue as she listens to Mr. Boggs, hearing an echo of her own concerns in his spiel.

"And mundane business must also be taken care of. It would be so easy to just magic the problems away," she snaps her fingers "but then the problems come back, angry at being put off." She looks at Parish and considers asking him about what he has been doing recently, but suspects the uncharacteristic small talk would not work as a deflection on him. So instead, she takes another puff on the cigar and gazes back into the fire.

"You know, you don't have to try to handle those problems all by yourself, Yazeba," Parish gently says to the witch. "I'm always here, willing to listen. You just have to be wiling to talk." He gives her a hopeful look as the fire warms the room.

---

Demi listens intently, not taking in Boggs’ every word (for there is a surplus healing over an abundance)… but what she can’t help but note is "You have so much to say about this calling of yours, Mr. Boggs. Such passion is a rarity! Do your office-mates not realize you are the proverbial—"

‘Diamond in the rough?’ Too Disneyish. Can I do an Excaliburian metaphor with pen-is-mightier implications? Well of course I could, but why? An interjected family-friendly F-alliteration: ‘frequently-foxy French frock!’ What. And. No. Her eyes flicker to the cloud.

"—silver lining."

"Foes afire, Parish! Of course I have to handle these problems myself! I'm the only one who knows how things work at the Bed and Breakfast! And as the one who suffers any consequences of failure, I am the only one who understands what is truly at stake." Yazeba says, lashing out at the noble frog. The void where her heart used to be reflexively hardening at the thought of opening up and letting anyone in. Her words were harsh and even cruel, but that was the only way to keep the blackness locked inside and to protect those under her care, even if they might not see it that way.

Parish winces as Yazeba snaps at him. "Zounds! I am only trying to help you, Yazeba!" he inadvertently snaps back. He knows he shouldn't keep pushing, but he blusters on, regardless. "I have known you to be cold since we met, but rarely have I known you to be cruel. Especially to me. It is unbecoming! You are my oldest friend, my dear. Why do you push away those who care about you the most?"

Mr. Boggs smiles at Demi Gorgone from behind his raincloud. He is about to respond when the argument breaks out between Parish and Yazeba. He turns to look at the pair across the room, curious about the outbursts. The raincloud emits a peal of thunder, perhaps picking up sympathetic vibrations from the tension in the air. He remains silent for now, but it is clear that he is listening intently to the witch and the frog.

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