There was only one problem. The tree wouldn’t fit through the door. I try again, but it would be a case of losing too many needles, not to mention paint, wall ornaments and that table looks fragile, balanced as it is with china and a telephone. A telephone? Who has a telephone?
I look up at her. Her eyes say it before she opens her mouth.
“Listen. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, really.”
Yet I persist, gently, haltingly. “I just thought it might make a nice centrepiece, is all.”
She nods. Standing back but still holding it with her gloved hands. Some needles have already dropped onto the mat and are lying on the polished wooden floors. The table by the door will need to be moved if there is any hope of getting it in there.
A welcome for it is forthcoming. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, balanced as I am halfway up the steps to the front door. Thinking quickly, I offer a compromise.
“Ok, alright. Listen. I can just take it back.”
Her expression changes subtly. It relaxes. “Would you? Well, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble. I mean, I really appreciate the gesture.”
I smile and shift my feet again. This tree is heavy. “It’s ok. I just thought that perhaps this year you could have something in there, you know, to celebrate with or.. You know something for the kids to enjoy while they’re over.”
Dammit. I’ve judged. I shouldn’t have done that. I brace for a sharp reply, which doesn’t come. The relief stays in place, perhaps with a slight crease showing in her forehead. Perhaps she’s just worried about the balance of this tree? Fear of me hurting myself? It really is too big. She starts to edge it back towards me down the steps. I walk it backwards gingerly.
While I’m not looking. “Michael, listen. Thank you for doing this.” She sounds like she means it. “You’ll come over on Boxing Day as per usual? Same time?”
I pull the tree back down onto the pavement and regain my footing. “Sure. Usual time.”
She stands, arms folded on the top step. “And you’ll be ok getting that back?”
I hug it towards me protectively. “Yeah, of course, I got it here, didn’t I? And it’s not far.”
I sense that I can’t quite keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I’ll be fine.”
She nods. “Well. Thank you. It was a really sweet thought.”
I smile a tight smile and dip my head to grab the trunk, raising it again in a hug to walk back to the corner stall.
I walk a few steps.
“Michael.”
I try not to sigh, stop, put the tree down again and turn around.
“You know, you don’t have to drop the kids off. I could always come and get them.” The phrase hands in the air. “I’d like to see where you live now.”
I stare at her, too stunned to speak.
“I mean, if that’s ok?”
My turn for my expression to change slowly. “Sure. I think they’d like that.” I smile. “And I think I’d like that too.”
And then she smiles at me. A flash of the smile she used to smile at me, and then she was gone up the steps.
Richard Bown is a writer and freelance software engineer. He is the author of HUMAN SOFTWARE a novel where small-town folk go up against AI and heartless corporate profiteering. Find out more and buy at humansoftwarebook.com
Thanks for reading this post. If you want to support my work please consider buying my book for yourself or someone you know!