It was Christmas and my boyfriend and I were sitting cross-legged on the threadbare carpet on our cold living room floor. Neither of us believed. But we had a tree because that’s what you do, isn’t it, put up a tree. My presents to him were under it. And I wrapped them because that’s what you do at Christmas. And birthdays. Anniversaries we never celebrated. Because you wouldn’t, would you, if you weren’t sure. But I’d chosen the gifts carefully because I’d given him thought. They were all wrapped with different paper and I scissor-curled the ribbons. Each package had a different card, each with a different message. Because you wouldn’t want to repeat yourself. My boyfriend was yawning from his drive home the night before from a conference down south. He’d taken the side roads, the ones with all the rest areas. You’d do that, wouldn’t you, if you weren’t in a hurry to get back. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t in a hurry to see him. I decided whatever he handed me, I’d try to act thankful. He handed me my present first. Just the one. It came in a plastic bag. That’s not a wrapping. That makes it not a gift, I decided, because that’s what you’d decide, isn’t it, if what you had was standards that were normal. And now I know gas stations put their names on plastic bags. That is the gift of knowledge, but that’s not enough to make something a gift. I can go to the library if I want to learn something. At least he managed a smile. Here’s your gift, he said, when he handed me the bag, hiding his teeth. I stared inside at an object trapped inside one of those plastic bubbles you need a jackhammer to crack open. I scrunched my eyebrows. It’s a wall charger surge protector, he said, cocking his head. I nodded and went over to the fogged-up window and wiped a view-hole with the side of my fist. Fresh snow on top of an old dirty layer sparkled and winked at me like silver glitter on a Christmas card. I hope you have the receipt, I said.
Author: Mikki Aronoff advocates for animals and scribbles away in New Mexico. Her work has been long-listed for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction.
This story left me screaming internally at the main character to run from this relationship, as threadbare as their carpet. No amount of fresh snowfall could cover up those cracks. Another great story. Glad I don't have to pick a winner from these three!
Briliant.