Boxing Day

It wasn’t their usual coffee place, but it was the only place open within walking distance of them both.

The number of words they actually spoke to each other was minimal, most of them one word questions or answers about the coffee, and if cakes were wanted and, if so, which ones.

However, they both knew the game they were playing. Every word, every silence, every gesture, every glance, all of it was a type of combat, jabs, feints, both of them looking for weaknesses, looking to score the KO.

Until eventually they realised they didn’t want to hurt anymore.

Xmas Dave

As the Queen was speaking to her subjects on the television, Dave was staring at the numbers on his phone, thumb hovering over the call button.

Apart from the moments when he’d been asleep, eating, dealing with the consequences of eating, and the time he’d been forced to interact with Mrs Smyth two apartments over, he’d been in this position, trying to will himself to press the button.

It had begun as her mess up, her drunken fling, but even he could admit that he’d overreacted, and his leaving was required.

But it was the season to give.

Forgiveness, maybe?

Xmas Eve

The outside world was engaged in the big yearly celebration of capitalism, as she would describe it. She’d grant you that it’s origins were mostly religious and seasonal, and she’d even admit that it means something other than rampant consumerism to a lot of people, but she’d die on the hill that it was mostly about buying stuff.

But in here, right now, there wasn’t a tree, or gift wrapping. She could afford them, and she usually made a token effort to go along with it all.

But then, usually she had Dave there with her. She doesn’t this year.