The bleak of the winter takes its toll, wrapping around me like a scarf of snow. Everything is gloomy in the sparkling Christmas lights, everything is cozy in the pale, washed out walls of my flat and everything is Christmas-sy despite the toe-numbing-throat-freezing air.
I don't wish to sound like Scrooge but I can't handle Christmas anymore. It only reminds me of all I have lost.
This is the first year without him and I just can't bare the thought.
I walk down the aisles aimlessly browsing over the tinned fruit and weedkillers scattered on the shelves in a disorderly manner. Who can blame the mess when Martha Wills works here?
Finally, I reach the sweet aisle and guiltily reach for a packet of Skittles. The bright colours and sweet tastes always make me feel a little better. I hastily grab another for later. As I turn, I bump straight into Martha.
"Bethany!" she drags out my name in an irritating manner. "How are you?"
I don't meet her gaze, I don't look at her, I look over her shoulder, formulating any excuse in my head out of sheer natural politeness. If there's one person I hate, it's Martha Wills.
"Er," is all I manage to say as I try to scoot round her. She catches my arm and pulls me back.
"Wait a second, pudgy. You owe me an apology."
In anger, I look up at her face. "I owe you nothing. Excuse me."
"So rude! How dare you!"
My cheeks are warm and someone else milling about in the aisle looks up at the sound of raised voices. I bite my tongue.
"Bethany, maybe you should just get down on those wobbly knees of yours and beg for my forgiveness because that is no less than you deserve. And I can't believe you still eat skittles, what a bag of calories. Well, why am I not surprised you must eat like, ten packs a day. And they're for little kids? Also, maybe to make up for that embarrassing misunderstanding, you should get me your brothers-"
I slap her. Hard. Right across that ridicuously bronzered right cheek bone.
Her eye brows shoot up and her jaw drops but in mock surprise.
"We can play that game."
I take a step back, holding my hand out infront of me like it's contaminated.
"I'm sorry, Martha. I didn't mean to-"
"Oh, yes you did." Martha glares at me, the satisfaction of what she is about to do to me ablaze in her eyes.
"Bethany?"
Someone calls my name and for a second I'm sure it's him. But it isn't, it's a boy from my history class.
"Bethany! There you are! Come on, let's go." Before I can stop him, Jake Harrold has taken my arm gently and is guiding me around Martha. Martha has no time to object.
We go to the tills and quickly scan my two packets of skittles through and leave the shabby supermarket, stepping out into the cold evening air.
"Thank you," I whisper then try again, louder, "thank you."
"You're welcome. She's a bit of a bitch. Anything for a damsel in distress," he chuckles.
I'm not sure how to interpret him. So I just smile and nod.
"Hey, do you want a pack of skittles?" I ask, hoping he'll accept because it's ever so awkward when people don't.
"Thanks!" He accpets graciously (just like I hoped) before adding, "I only helped for the free skittles," but this makes me laugh. We walk down streets eating skittles not really feeling the need to make conversation. Yet I knew the question was eating him away.
