Christmas Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
The cashier at the grocery store
smiled and said he was happy to be paid triple time to work on Christmas
Day. Something in that smile seemed
wrong. Feigned happiness to hide his loneliness? He was middle aged. Maybe he was divorced. Or maybe his kids hated him. Or maybe he had no one. Regardless, I felt sorry for him.
The manager at the coffee shop
gave out free eggnog. A fine holiday gesture,
but I was there for caffeine.
At the party the film on
television recapped false holiday hopes about love and sacrifice and reinforced
cliché dreams and bromides. If we all
gave a little bit more, loved a little more unconditionally, we could all get
everything we ever wished for.
The heat was set too high, yet
we were all wearing sweaters.
It rained. No snow, but plenty of moisture.
She turned back to me. Group conversation had slowed and everyone
was breaking off into smaller cliques.
She was happy to answer other people’s questions of her and look them in
the eye while doing so. But she always
turned back to me when there was a lull.
It was flattering. Maybe I was a
good conversationalist. Maybe I just had
a nice smile. Or maybe we were both
single and lonely during the holiday season.
Not exactly my type. Too plain.
Too ordinary. But she was
troubled with baggage and spoke openly and freely about it. No shame with this one. Maybe she was my type. Maybe I could unwrap that baggage and open it
up.
Merry Christmas to me.
Watching other people open gifts
can be a taxing chore. You have to
pretend to be just as excited as if you really care what color scarf they love
or what brand of coffee mugs the prefer.
“This is strange, right?” she
asked me. There she was, turning back to
me again. “Not participating…?” She left the end of the question off. Just let it dangle there, so that I could
infer what I wanted and answered how I pleased.
I liked that she gave that courtesy.
“I didn’t really know who would
be here at the party,” I lied. I just
didn’t want to spend the extra money.
“Not me. I just got downsized. No way was I wasting cash this time of year.”
There she goes again, telling
too much of the worst type of information.
She’s worse of than me. Thank
God.
“What’s up with this heat?” She
asked. “You hot?”
Without waiting for a reply she
took off her sweater. Her undershirt
pulled up and I caught a glimpse of skin.
I was hoping to see some bra, but no such luck.
She’s unwrapping my gift for me,
I thought.
I pretended not to notice or to
watch as she quickly battled her undershirt back into place. We caught eyes and she must have realized
what I was watching but pretending not to see.
She smiled and chuckled a
little.
She pulled out a pen and a scrap
of paper from her purse and wrote down a phone number.
“Here,” she handed me the
note. “You were going to have to ask me
for my number at some point, right? I
figured I’d just make it easy on you.”
I smiled in return.
Merry Christmas to me indeed.
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