Presents of Mind

I put the glass down gently. One more ring on the wood: like the circles in a log they’d measured time efficiently. About 18 units since the slammed door. The star on the tree was crooked, sad; the tinsel had alopecia. The shiny paper on the floor looked pathetic; but not as pathetic as the stuff still wrapped around all the other presents, under the tree.

The present itself was still on the table. I’d been so sure in the shop. I had measurements and even a very attractive assistant to help me. This year I’d finally got it right. 10 years of perfidious presents; the robotic words of thanks and the increasingly disappointed looks confirming their betrayal. TV-chef tie-ins, the latest electrical gadgets, a romantic weekend in Ghent; just not quite good enough. Maybe it was just the wrong city.

The imagination conversation was the worst; that had been the previous year.

‘You just don’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘What it is I want.’
‘You could tell me.’
‘You could use your imagination.’

So I’d tried. Really. The other glass was still on the table. Empty.
I poured myself another shaken-not-stirred. Pity, he would have looked good in that dinner jacket