'Tis the Season
A trio of flash fiction on moments of loneliness, intimacy and universal experience.
Bleach
He was going to answer the door when he slipped on the carpet and died.
It had only knocked once but he knew what they were like. These delivery drivers liked to steal things or leave things to be stolen.
And that was the reason he disliked ordering anything online.
But anxiety had kept him behind the closed door today: he'd reached as far as the door itself; looked out of the diamond shaped glass warping the afternoon sun and, wrapping his dressing gown around his shoulders, decided the world wasn't where he wanted to be.
Still, he needed bleach to clean the house for the new year. So that was what he ordered: a single bottle of thick bleach.
The door knocked again, rudely this time, and he got up.
The cheap Christmas sock on his left foot glided across the carpet and for a moment he looked, and felt, almost elegant as he inhaled the surprise.
But his grace was interrupted by the acute awareness that his delivery would be left at the door.
His head met the edge of the table in a splitting crack and he felt warm.
And he thought what a shame it would be to go into the new year with the house in such a mess
Baileys
It's not Christmas 'til you've had a Baileys is it?Maureen used to say.
Angie remembered her mom, comfy in the armchair closest to the Christmas tree, glass in hand, legs crossed as she sat forward. It made Angie laugh. The thought of Maureen trying to look like she was helping wrap the presents when all she was doing was sticking bows on the odd one.
They'd have Christmas music on and her mom would dance in her chair getting merrier and merrier until Angie had finished the last present. Then they'd watch a film, both with a glass of Baileys and a mince pie, and talk about what the kids had to open in the morning.
It's not Christmas 'til tomorrow Angie used to say but Maureen would always open a present on Christmas Eve. She would stuff the wrapping paper down the side of the sofa so the babbies don't know and then go to bed all giddy.
Band Aid chimed through the speakers to ask if everybody knew, in case the aisles of Christmas crap didn't already give it away, that it was Christmastime at all.
Yes thought Angie, we know.
Down the drinks aisle, Angie pressed her lips together when she saw there was none of the Irish cream left. She chose a bottle of prosecco, told herself it would do and then got all of her usual bits. Angie picked up a box of mince pies and chucked them on top of the big pack of toilet roll she'd got.
It's not Christmas 'til you've had a mince pie, is it, love?
The woman at the self service tills, head adorned with fake fur reindeer antlers, grinned, looked at the prosecco and then at Angie before clicking a few buttons on the screen. She seemed to wriggle with excitement when she asked if Angie was ready for the big day. Angie smiled but felt her jaw tighten and thought she may as well have just taken her trolley to a normal till. Or not bothered with the fizzy substitute in the first place.
Outside the shop, she was relieved that the earlier snow had all but melted away except for a light covering on the tops of a few cars and the metal handles of the trollies huddled together in their bay.
Some of us have to work Christmas, she thought, as she imagined a difficult drive to the hospital in the morning if the snow decided to stick to the roads.
Angie pushed her trolley into the others and clicked the lock to get her pound coin back. The clang of the metal bothered the snow and it fell in sludgy slabs through the bars and onto the wet pavement underneath the trollies.
It's not Christmas 'til it snows, is it?
The voice came from behind the rack of metal. It made Angie jump but it was too soft and warm to frighten her.
Oh, I don't know she said.
She wanted to say fuck the snow and fuck the mince pies and fuck the Baileys but the cold pound coin in her hand reminded her that the voice she'd heard belonged to somebody who was probably worse off; there was always somebody sitting outside the supermarket asking for change and it really was cold today.
Two shiny black boots came into view first and Angie laughed out loud when she saw the white fur trim attached to the plush red suit and the skinny black man inside it.
Angie stopped laughing when she looked at the man's face and saw that tears had left salty tracks and his eyes were puffed up.
He held up the bottle of Baileys then but the smile on his face looked even sadder to Angie. A curly white beard was pulled under his chin, elastic pressing into his cheeks making his grin look forced. A single gold band hung from a silver chain around his neck and for a moment Angie wondered what his story was.
It's Christmas he said have a drink with me.
It's half eight on Christmas Eve, Angie thought, the poor bugger must have somewhere to go. She knew she did: home and bed after a drink to remember mom.
She gave the man a polite laugh and turned to her parked car sitting under the shop's backlit sign. The pound coin pressed into the palm of her hand under the strain of the plastic carrier bag handles.
Angie's car door clunked shut and just as she turned the key in the ignition a single snowflake landed on her windscreen and melted into the drops of water on the glass.
Really? Angie said out loud.
More snow fell but was gone as soon as it arrived, dragged across the glass by the wiper Angie had switched on.
And then she switched it off.
Angie found herself reaching for the carrier bag in the passenger footwell as the light in the car roof faded above her head.
Do you fancy a mince pie?
Crumbs of shortcrust pastry fell onto the wet concrete in time with the dusty snow and the man took a long glug from the black bottle before offering it to Angie. She shook her head and scrunched up the empty foil case in her hand, still chewing on the sticky fruit.
Come on, it's not Christmas 'til you've had a Baileys, is it?
He nudged her gently with his elbow as if they'd known each other years.
It's not Christmas til tomorrow, love, she said,
just the one Christmas will do me.
Over the Road
They've got a grow on at their house this Christmas.
I know for a fact they have,
because the snow doesn't stick to their roof in the morning,
and my next door neighbour says they're chavs.
I don't know what you mean I say,
but of course I do.
She says they're always dressed in tracksuits
and their rent is probably overdue.
I say I don't know what you mean
So she warns me there and then:
They're not the kind of friends you want.
They know some nasty men.
They've got a grow on over there,
I know for a fact they do.
The frost stays away from their windows
and my next door neighbour confirmed it too.
They're dealing over there she says,
and I feign surprise.
But I know for a fact that they're growing bud,
I saw him sell a fat three five.
I knocked on their door,
just to say hello,
before I'd even moved in.
They said my neighbour's alright,
she keeps to herself
but they worry that she's thin.
They say her garden's a mess
but they don't judge -
she's got no family,
her ex took her for a mug.
They've had a grow on over there this Christmas,
but I don't really care.
Because their roof is warm,
there is no frost
and they weigh their stuff out fair.