(no subject)
The twenty-second prompt is: Five recesses, four calls to Father, three lunch tickets, two brand new pencils, and a desk for all of my books. Oddly, this has no real dialogue, but I love it nonetheless.
I never did like Christmas. It's all about building anticipation up to impossible levels, then crashing and burning, leaving tired hungover people to clean up the mess. Wrapping paper intertwining with discarded and broken toys. Some crazy man in a red suit, who can read minds, breaks into every single person's house, and everyone is okay with it. Everyone overstays their welcome because good-byes are awkward. There is an overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction and severe disappointment, and a distinct resentment at that last piece of pie, which you knew was a bad idea, but went ahead and ate anyway.
I'll admit I was amused when you decided to singlehandedly instill me with the Christmas Spirit. I openly doubted your powers to convince me that consumerism and greed were all for the greater good. Then you showed up at my doorstep five days straight, insisting I go to the park with you. We trudged through the ankle deep snow, you walking about five steps ahead of me while I unsteadily walked in your footprints. The air was still, waiting for something to break it. You laughed, a full and genuine laugh, when you glanced back at me, watching me try to balance as I (not quite successfully) followed your bigger strides.
I hadn't been near a swing for forever. I forgot the sheer exhilaration, the imagined weightlessness, the innocence. Even with our breath clearly visible before us, and our faces turning red with cold, we stayed there for hours. At first we merely laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, but soon we strayed into conversation. The chattering teeth, the wind-stolen words, the quick gasps for breath signaled our retreat to central heating.
He never really hinted at anything serious between us. Well, we both admitted to loving the other, and talk of marriage certainly came up every once in a while, but I guess I never could read signs correctly. When my father called to ask me that I request my friend stop prank calling him, my mind snapped to attention. You called him three times to ask for my hand. He, the vigilant father that he is, assumed you were kidding, since I never told him about any men in my life. I explained just exactly who you were, and that if he wanted to give his consent, then he should. The fourth call got you what you wanted, and so much more. No one can fully impart the fear of God into a man like a protective parent can.
For three days, you came to my office with lunch. We sat at a cramped table in the secluded corner of the atrium and ate my favorite dishes. On the first day we feasted on the only pizza in town that piled each slice with five different meats, which I knew to be your favorite as well. The next day we sampled sushi from my favorite restaurant, despite your abhorrence for anything close to sushi. On the last day, you brought the same lasagna you made on our third date, after I accused you of not knowing how to use an oven. Each day I expected you to ask me The Question, and each day you simply asked a question. "Will you move in with me?" I asked why now, why after three years of separate apartments did he want me to move now. He responded with only a smile.
Late the evening, as I sat hunched over my dining-room table, working on a piece for Apocalypse, Please. As I agonized about what the readers would think, not to mention the editors, I wrote out my notes. Three pages later, and I was still standing squarely right where I began. Since this was obviously getting me nowhere, I wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing a Dr Pepper and a sandwich I dreamed of a day when my workspace wouldn't be right next to the kitchen. The close proximity to food did nothing for my waist, and eating took of valuable time that should be spent on actually meeting deadlines.
Right as I was about to give up on getting anywhere with my article, the doorbell rang. I assumed it was you, because no one else visits me without calling first. Imagine my surprise when your best friend greeted me instead. He sauntered into my living-room and lounged on my sofa. Amused at his ease and comfort in my home, I almost missed the package he brought with him. When I questioned him about it, he responded by asking me a question. He asked about my intent with you. He cautioned me against breaking your heart, promising to break my legs if I so much as made you tear up. His serious tone broke when he laughed at his own imagery, but was soon back in place when he told me that you really and truly love me, and that he would never allow me to hurt you.
Once I assured him that my emotions are equal to yours, he handed me the package. Even though Christmas was still a week away, I smiled at your attempt to infuse me with a love of presents. However, since you obviously put thought into the gift, it didn't feel hollow, like most gifts do. It wasn't some crazy knick-knack or a cheap bobble, it was a desk set. A leather blotter, with matching notepad, letter holder. A silver letter opener and two matching silver pens sat, nestled in the leather pen holder. But tucked into the corner, almost hidden by the notepad, were two brand new #2 pencils. A length of silver ribbon held them together with a simple bow. I smiled. You remembered. You knew my love of general office supplies, but also my love of pencils. There's just something about writing with pencils. Depending on my mood, I can ghost across the page, or press my ideas into the pages beyond. Mistakes can be erased. A broken pencil can merely be sharpened again. And there's nothing like working a pencil down to a nub. It's proof that you did something, proof that you exist, proof that your ideas are down on paper somewhere. And you knew all of this. You added the missing piece of the desk set, the piece that gave this gift some meaning behind it.
Your best friend stayed to watch my reaction to the gift. I thanked him for bringing it. He left. It was nice, knowing that we had his blessing and all. I know he was vocal about what a mistake you were making when we first started dating. I smiled for the rest of the day as I worked on (and finished) that damn article.
On Christmas day, you knocked on my door at six o'clock in the morning. I almost stabbed you with my brand new letter opener. But when I opened the door and saw you standing there with the eager excitement of a little kid on, well, Christmas morning, I decided to forgo the murder. You made me breakfast while I took a shower and got dressed. I always did love your waffles, something about the correct butter to syrup ratio. When we both sat back, too full to eat any more, you asked, "Are you ready for this?" I asked what that even meant. All you did was smile that giddy little smile and get up. After clearing the table, but leaving the dishes to sit in the sink, we left my apartment.
You insisted on listening to Christmas music in the car. I allowed it, since you at least resisted the urge to sing along. Watching the buildings and street signs pass us by, I tried to decipher our location, but we were in a part of town I was unfamiliar with. Finally, you came to a stop outside of a small two story house. I assumed it was your parents' house, and asked if it was, but you said it wasn't.
You had a key, and the house was completely furnished. However, despite all the homey touches, the house didn't feel lived in. Something was missing. You led me throughout the house, showing me every room and closet. The kitchen was somewhat stocked, but only with non-parishible items. By the time we moved upstairs, I guessed that you recently bought this house, but I couldn't quite figure out why.
The upstairs consisted of three rooms. One room was the master bedroom, another was a bathroom, and the last room was a study. The walls were lined with empty bookshelves. Off to the right was a large desk with a comfortable looking leather office chair behind it. In the far left corner was a giant globe in a floor stand. And in the middle were two large, plush chairs angled toward each other, with a small coffee table between them, and a lamp on either side. This is the room I always dreamed of.
I looked at you, searching for anything that would tell me why you were showing me this house. You told me to sit down at the desk. I did as you told me, and looked at the surface of the desk. On a post-it note, in the middle of the desk was "This is yours, Merry Christmas" written in your messy, but distinct scrawl. I looked up, still a bit confused, not willing to believe. You told me it was true, that this house was for us.
I don't remember much of moving, it was all a big blur of boxes and movers and sweat. The first clear memory I have after the move is us sitting together in my study, in those wonderful chairs, reading (you a magazine, me a novel) and each of us pausing every so often to sip at our drinks (you a coffee and me a scotch). It was the perfect moment.
Though I still don't believe completely in the magic of Christmas, I get it better now. Christmas isn't what the movies or the greeting card commercials would have us believe. Christmas is about being with those you love and loving them. I may love you, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to let you sing along to Christmas music in the car.
I never did like Christmas. It's all about building anticipation up to impossible levels, then crashing and burning, leaving tired hungover people to clean up the mess. Wrapping paper intertwining with discarded and broken toys. Some crazy man in a red suit, who can read minds, breaks into every single person's house, and everyone is okay with it. Everyone overstays their welcome because good-byes are awkward. There is an overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction and severe disappointment, and a distinct resentment at that last piece of pie, which you knew was a bad idea, but went ahead and ate anyway.
I'll admit I was amused when you decided to singlehandedly instill me with the Christmas Spirit. I openly doubted your powers to convince me that consumerism and greed were all for the greater good. Then you showed up at my doorstep five days straight, insisting I go to the park with you. We trudged through the ankle deep snow, you walking about five steps ahead of me while I unsteadily walked in your footprints. The air was still, waiting for something to break it. You laughed, a full and genuine laugh, when you glanced back at me, watching me try to balance as I (not quite successfully) followed your bigger strides.
I hadn't been near a swing for forever. I forgot the sheer exhilaration, the imagined weightlessness, the innocence. Even with our breath clearly visible before us, and our faces turning red with cold, we stayed there for hours. At first we merely laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, but soon we strayed into conversation. The chattering teeth, the wind-stolen words, the quick gasps for breath signaled our retreat to central heating.
He never really hinted at anything serious between us. Well, we both admitted to loving the other, and talk of marriage certainly came up every once in a while, but I guess I never could read signs correctly. When my father called to ask me that I request my friend stop prank calling him, my mind snapped to attention. You called him three times to ask for my hand. He, the vigilant father that he is, assumed you were kidding, since I never told him about any men in my life. I explained just exactly who you were, and that if he wanted to give his consent, then he should. The fourth call got you what you wanted, and so much more. No one can fully impart the fear of God into a man like a protective parent can.
For three days, you came to my office with lunch. We sat at a cramped table in the secluded corner of the atrium and ate my favorite dishes. On the first day we feasted on the only pizza in town that piled each slice with five different meats, which I knew to be your favorite as well. The next day we sampled sushi from my favorite restaurant, despite your abhorrence for anything close to sushi. On the last day, you brought the same lasagna you made on our third date, after I accused you of not knowing how to use an oven. Each day I expected you to ask me The Question, and each day you simply asked a question. "Will you move in with me?" I asked why now, why after three years of separate apartments did he want me to move now. He responded with only a smile.
Late the evening, as I sat hunched over my dining-room table, working on a piece for Apocalypse, Please. As I agonized about what the readers would think, not to mention the editors, I wrote out my notes. Three pages later, and I was still standing squarely right where I began. Since this was obviously getting me nowhere, I wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing a Dr Pepper and a sandwich I dreamed of a day when my workspace wouldn't be right next to the kitchen. The close proximity to food did nothing for my waist, and eating took of valuable time that should be spent on actually meeting deadlines.
Right as I was about to give up on getting anywhere with my article, the doorbell rang. I assumed it was you, because no one else visits me without calling first. Imagine my surprise when your best friend greeted me instead. He sauntered into my living-room and lounged on my sofa. Amused at his ease and comfort in my home, I almost missed the package he brought with him. When I questioned him about it, he responded by asking me a question. He asked about my intent with you. He cautioned me against breaking your heart, promising to break my legs if I so much as made you tear up. His serious tone broke when he laughed at his own imagery, but was soon back in place when he told me that you really and truly love me, and that he would never allow me to hurt you.
Once I assured him that my emotions are equal to yours, he handed me the package. Even though Christmas was still a week away, I smiled at your attempt to infuse me with a love of presents. However, since you obviously put thought into the gift, it didn't feel hollow, like most gifts do. It wasn't some crazy knick-knack or a cheap bobble, it was a desk set. A leather blotter, with matching notepad, letter holder. A silver letter opener and two matching silver pens sat, nestled in the leather pen holder. But tucked into the corner, almost hidden by the notepad, were two brand new #2 pencils. A length of silver ribbon held them together with a simple bow. I smiled. You remembered. You knew my love of general office supplies, but also my love of pencils. There's just something about writing with pencils. Depending on my mood, I can ghost across the page, or press my ideas into the pages beyond. Mistakes can be erased. A broken pencil can merely be sharpened again. And there's nothing like working a pencil down to a nub. It's proof that you did something, proof that you exist, proof that your ideas are down on paper somewhere. And you knew all of this. You added the missing piece of the desk set, the piece that gave this gift some meaning behind it.
Your best friend stayed to watch my reaction to the gift. I thanked him for bringing it. He left. It was nice, knowing that we had his blessing and all. I know he was vocal about what a mistake you were making when we first started dating. I smiled for the rest of the day as I worked on (and finished) that damn article.
On Christmas day, you knocked on my door at six o'clock in the morning. I almost stabbed you with my brand new letter opener. But when I opened the door and saw you standing there with the eager excitement of a little kid on, well, Christmas morning, I decided to forgo the murder. You made me breakfast while I took a shower and got dressed. I always did love your waffles, something about the correct butter to syrup ratio. When we both sat back, too full to eat any more, you asked, "Are you ready for this?" I asked what that even meant. All you did was smile that giddy little smile and get up. After clearing the table, but leaving the dishes to sit in the sink, we left my apartment.
You insisted on listening to Christmas music in the car. I allowed it, since you at least resisted the urge to sing along. Watching the buildings and street signs pass us by, I tried to decipher our location, but we were in a part of town I was unfamiliar with. Finally, you came to a stop outside of a small two story house. I assumed it was your parents' house, and asked if it was, but you said it wasn't.
You had a key, and the house was completely furnished. However, despite all the homey touches, the house didn't feel lived in. Something was missing. You led me throughout the house, showing me every room and closet. The kitchen was somewhat stocked, but only with non-parishible items. By the time we moved upstairs, I guessed that you recently bought this house, but I couldn't quite figure out why.
The upstairs consisted of three rooms. One room was the master bedroom, another was a bathroom, and the last room was a study. The walls were lined with empty bookshelves. Off to the right was a large desk with a comfortable looking leather office chair behind it. In the far left corner was a giant globe in a floor stand. And in the middle were two large, plush chairs angled toward each other, with a small coffee table between them, and a lamp on either side. This is the room I always dreamed of.
I looked at you, searching for anything that would tell me why you were showing me this house. You told me to sit down at the desk. I did as you told me, and looked at the surface of the desk. On a post-it note, in the middle of the desk was "This is yours, Merry Christmas" written in your messy, but distinct scrawl. I looked up, still a bit confused, not willing to believe. You told me it was true, that this house was for us.
I don't remember much of moving, it was all a big blur of boxes and movers and sweat. The first clear memory I have after the move is us sitting together in my study, in those wonderful chairs, reading (you a magazine, me a novel) and each of us pausing every so often to sip at our drinks (you a coffee and me a scotch). It was the perfect moment.
Though I still don't believe completely in the magic of Christmas, I get it better now. Christmas isn't what the movies or the greeting card commercials would have us believe. Christmas is about being with those you love and loving them. I may love you, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to let you sing along to Christmas music in the car.