And you, who had this way of crinkling your brow and appearing to be so very offended those few short seconds, for my own amusement, before reverting back to that perfect state of bliss. This sort of honest motion rather than a shroud.
I used to think it was a shroud. A mask. A façade that would brush across the skin of your lips, and corrupt your features with unwanted friendliness as if you pitied me. I had always believed it to be pity.
But now, as we laid there among the badly wrapped presents and the rather sloppily ornamented fir, I couldn’t imagine my life without that rigid jaw. The smooth forehead and perfectly roman, though slightly oily, nose of which I kissed softly. A brief affection when the whim and the courage took me, though not often did it.
And you would be happy. Your lips would pull back over slightly crooked teeth, and your green eyes would soften considerably, though for whatever reason I could not imagine. Affection was not my strong-suit but warmth was yours, and in warmth I felt comforted. And comfortable enough to touch my lips briefly to the top of that nose, wondering how anyone or anything could be so perfect.
“You’ve got needles stuck in your hair,” you'd stated, eyes flicking up momentarily before flitting back down in that sequential embrace. Your hand would reach up and pluck two or three of them, tossing them away, before smiling once more.
“Thanks,” I murmured, the colour flooding briefly, my instinct for flight becoming all too powerful. And I had wanted to escape many times before, for fear of being and doing exactly what I shouldn’t have. Like resting my forehead against yours, or kissing the tip of your nose.
“Any time,” you would reply. A serious note. “Every time.”
There was that knot again. The pleading, persistence.
You reached into your pocket then; a short, quick motion as if just remembering something important, and that’s what your face had depicted. A bout of realization and then warmth. When your hand raised, a small box, wrapped in red paper inhabited that palm with a little gold bow perched precariously on top by a discreet piece of scotch tape. Your imploring eyes met mine, then you inched your hand forward.
“For you,” you'd say. “Merry Christmas.”
At first I didn’t take it. The way it had surprised me was one thing, seeing as we had both made sure to spend the exact same amount of money this year, and that all the gifts would have to be accounted for. Everything had to be even; deserved. Getting more without giving was something I feared, for it would make me even more inadequate than I already was, and you would receive no more from me than you were willing to give yourself.
I did not voice this at first. In fact, I did not voice this at all. The panic was still flooding my veins and curdling the blood that thumped mercilessly loud.
When you did not appear to be fazed by my lack of movement and had yet to lower your hand, I finally plucked it – though quickly – and ascertained that it weighed very little. In fact, it felt light as a feather.
“Open it,” you'd urge. And so I did.
With quick fingers, I tore the scarlet paper, taking the bow for myself. A keepsake, I had thought, for the first Christmas we would spend together. And maybe, there would be more Christmases to come.
The box in itself was made of cardboard. Brown and plain and inconspicuous. The kind of box that contained silly things. Contrite things. Things that shouldn’t make me worry as much as I did. But worry was something ingrained in my being. Ingrained where words could not touch nor fix. To deserve and to believe in deserving are two very different things, and I had never believed in deserving much of anything, let alone you.
And so I opened the box.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that there was nothing in it. Not a mark or a token. Not a gesture of times gone past or times to come. Just an empty cardboard box, resting on the tips of my fingers, waiting for the explanation that would inevitably come. Of course, it was not what I expected to hear. Not in the least.
“I was waiting for the right time to give you this,” you said, then paused, as if deliberating on what should and what needed to be heard. When you spoke again, your voice took on a more serious note once more, quaking in placidity before taking a turn for an emotional upstart. “I wanted to give you hope.”
I could feel my teeth nicking my lower lip then. A nervous fidget. “Hope?”
“Yes,” you'd respond. “Hope.”
I turned on my back then, away from your imploring eyes for a few moments so I could catch my breath. Redeem myself from the confusion it all brought forth. Of course, your hand would snake around my neck then, cupping my cheek with a soft, gentle motion.
“You, of all people, deserve hope,” you'd murmur, then. A gentle hum of a sound. “For every time you’ve doubted yourself and feared saying what you meant. For those times you took the blame. Mostly, though, for everything you’ve said and for everything you’ve believed.”
The tears were stinging now, brimming over in that moment of embarrassment and fear before plummeting in streams of liquid. Of course, your thumb was there to wipe them away. Always there to catch them as they fell.
“I want you to put hope in me,” you said. “And if not, use that gift wisely. Hope is a beautiful thing.”
I remembered kissing you then. The first time I had ever kissed you of my own accord, and your lips felt hard from that brief surprise, and the waves of nausea were swept away by delightful excitement that came with every passionate motion.
And then there was you. You, who brought me hope.
I don’t think I ever told you that your Christmas present came too late, that year.
~~
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