Quirky Tales on Love

Christmas Shopping

Christmas Shopping

“Christmas shopping?” The voice startles him out of his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah?” It comes out more like a question, to his chagrin.

“Ha, me too,” she says, sidling up to him. Looking down at the objects in her hands, she sighs, “The yearly dilemma of buying Christmas presents.”

“Oh,” he says in response, blinking at the brunette that approached him out of nowhere to strike up a conversation. He clears his throat. “So, who’re you buying for?”

That seems to catch her off guard. “My, uh, boyfriend.” It’s a quick save, but a save nonetheless.

A sense of this-girl-is-special makes him nod and reply, “I’m shopping for my girlfriend.”

She smiles and holds up a pair of pink and neon green polka-dotted gloves, and a pair of indoor slippers with metal spikes affixed to every available stitch of cloth. “Could you help me? Which do you think would be better for him?” He turns away from the display case and focuses on her possible presents. “I feel like the gloves will help him express his inner need for gaudy and disgusting colour, so he won’t fall into a strange, incurable depression over the course of our relationship.” Then she holds up the slippers. “But these, aren’t they just exquisite? Something not even remotely dangerous is perfect for indoor shoe wear, and if he ever gets frustrated with his feelings he can go and kick something and feel sick satisfaction at wrecking my parents’ house.”

Nodding sagely, he strokes his chin. Something in this stranger’s smile makes him want to help her with this urgent problem – good people get presents from Santa, after all. “I agree that all men need some kind of output for their desire for neon clashing colours, and that the slippers are practical, as they pose no danger except to future-in-laws. However…” He trails off and turns a little on his heel. “How about this?” Plucking the hat off its perch on the shelf, he plants it on his head. “The neon pink is a good output for gaudiness, and the giant antlers,” he touches them on the sides of the hat, “is safe enough for indoors. And the fact that they’ll stretch high above his head will give him some connection to the sky, and you might be able to use him as a weather vane.”

“Ah,” she says, inching closer to lift the hat off his head, a grin twisting about her lips. “A perfect combination of abstract and practicality. He’ll love it, I’m sure!” He smiles back down at her. This is turning out to be more entertaining than he thought. “Hey,” she says. “Do you need help too?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he says, injecting a sort grateful sheepishness into his tone. “I’ve got mine already.” He holds up a pencil. “This long object will be great for picking noses and digging ears, and if my girlfriend ever gets pissed she can throw it at walls like a dart, and the marks left behind can be erased off,” he informs her solemnly.

“Oh.” She sounds enthralled. “That’s a brilliant idea!” The girl touches the pencil like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He lowers his hand, so her fingers slip down to touch his. The innocent, childishly delight grin slides off her face, replaced by the look of a child about to confess a secret. “Lean closer. I want to tell you something,” she says, and he obliges. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she tells him, eyes wide, a hint of something teasing flitting about her lips.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, straining to keep his face straight.

“We’re so muchmore alike than I thought,” the girl says.

He looks down at her and she looks up at him, and all he catches is the slight tilt of her lips that heralds something greater on the horizon, before both of them are laughing in the middle of the store, the sea of people parting around them like the force of their mirth is physical.

Dropping the items back onto the display table, he hooks his arm with a girl that he met ten minutes ago, but whom he somehow knows better than he knows his own siblings, and grins down at her. Maybe he did have someone to invite to his parents’ Christmas party.

“Wanna get something to drink? There’s a café nearby,” she says, her voice lilting in a way that is not-serious-but-trust-me-I’m-really-serious, and he wants to keep hearing that tone everyday, for as long as he could.

“Don’t you need to get Christmas presents?” he manages to get out a dumb question.

“Oh,” she says, and the curve of her lips seems cheekier than before. “I think I’ve gotten my Christmas present already.” She drags him closer so he has to tuck her under his arm and somehow they fit without meaning to.