Tiger

The rain tapped gently against the café window, a rhythmic patter underscoring the quiet murmur of early morning patrons. Outside, the streets shimmered, puddles collecting the glow of flickering streetlights, 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. Even so, 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. 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?” Still, 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 upward, 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 settled around her, rain and leather and something unmistakably him. 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 and retrieved a small, neatly wrapped package. He slid it across the table, watching her carefully.

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

She hesitated, then lifted the wrapping with delicate fingers, unfolding the paper with a care reserved for fragile things. Inside rested 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, his voice low and 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 tightened his chest, the way it stirred something 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 drifted through the events of the previous day, like an old home movie playing behind his eyes. Mary skipping breakfast. Not finishing a sandwich. Falling asleep in front of the television, her dinner cold on the tray in her lap. When had she last eaten properly? He didn’t want to press her. Not again. The last time had caused an argument, and not on her birthday. She was stubborn like that. Hank swallowed his worry.

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

Mary glanced down, tucking the remaining slices of cake into 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 and retrieved the battered envelope. His heart sank. There was only a single dollar note inside.

That wasn’t possible. I could’ve sworn there was more in there last night.

His memory wasn’t something he could rely on anymore. Hank was four years older than Mary. What I’d give to be sixty-three again. He shoved a shovel-sized hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a palmful 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. The words knotted in his throat. Pete caught the hesitation.

“You know, Hank, my old dad was probably your biggest fan,” Pete said. “I think he would’ve liked the chance to buy Mary a slice of birthday cake. What d’ya say? For my old dad?”

“That’s real kind of ya, Pete. Ya old 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 laughed. “He told me some tall stories about you, Hank. Boy, did he tell me some stories. Near the end, though, he got a little mixed up. It was expected. The doctor warned us. Said we were lucky he was as lucid as he was—”

Peter cut himself off with a short cough of laughter as another memory surfaced. “You know, he once said the funniest thing. Told me about a time you fought two men at once, just for charity. Took them both down.”

Hank chuckled, pocketing the envelope. “Yeh, sounds like ya old man got a few details wrong. It was for charity, though. The orphanage needed a new roof and the council wouldn’t fork a cent. I had some boxers that’d been wanting a crack at me, so I gave ’em a call. Mary arranged the tickets and the money. She was good at that stuff.” He nodded at Pete. “Wasn’t four boxers, though. Thanks again for the cake, Pete.”

He turned, his huge frame rotating slowly, like the earth shifting on its axis.

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

Outside, the wind surged, rattling the windows. Hank was already back beside Mary. The café door creaked as he opened it, the worsening storm swallowing the sounds inside and forcing Pete to raise his voice.

“Wait… Hank! How many?”

Hank opened his mouth to reply as the wind dipped again and the café fell quiet. The patrons shifted, their attention drawn by the raised voice.

“Oh, it was three,” Hank said calmly. “Knocked out two in the first round. The third went down in the second.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Three?”

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

Peter glanced from Mary back to Hank.

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

Peter stood there, his arms slowly dropping to his sides, mouth slightly open. “Three,” he murmured to himself, still trying to make sense of it. What else had my dad told me about Hank?

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