My Christmas Spirit

by K. C. Wells

  I said nothing, but busied myself with my latte and the remains of my mince pie. To my relief, Ollie did the same. When he’d finished, he sighed. “Oh well. Time to go.”

  I tilted my head to one side. “Wherever it is you’re going, you don’t sound that enthusiastic about the prospect.”

  Ollie’s gaze met mine briefly. “Yeah. Long story.” He got to his feet. “Thanks for the conversation.” He made as if to leave, but hesitated. “I’m not gonna explain why, but you made my coming here today a little easier.” He held out his hand.

  “That sounds very enigmatic,” I commented. And also intriguing. I shook the proffered hand. “Here’s hoping you find a Christmas tree in plenty of time this year, that won’t scrape your ceiling.”

  Ollie flashed me in the briefest of smiles. “See you.” And with that, he picked up the bag that had been sat over the back of his chair, slung it over his shoulder, and left the coffee shop.

  It wasn’t until after his departure that I noticed Mike had also left.

  What could have possessed him to do that? Then I realized I didn’t want to know the answer. Because that would mean Mike turning up again.

  I wasn’t sure I could handle more of that.

  By the time I got home, I was in no mood to be creative in the kitchen. The rush-hour sardine can had been worse than usual, and all I wanted was to eat, flop onto the couch, and turn off my brain by watching something mindless on TV.

  I scanned the freezer’s contents, chose a ready meal, and switched on the oven. While I waited for it to heat up, I went into my living room and took a long, hard look around. What struck me almost immediately was that Mike had been right. I hadn’t let him go. How could I, when he was all around me? His books were on my bookshelf, not that I’d even looked at one of them in the last six years. His DVDs sat on the shelves too, similarly ignored. Mike’s taste in films had differed greatly from mine, with only a narrow overlap when it came to Star Wars. The turntable he’d saved up for, its clear plastic lid covered with a sheet to protect it, sat on a cabinet. Below it in a cupboard were all Mike’s LPs. Some of them dated back to the first LP he’d ever bought for himself, others were treasures he’d found in second-hand stores and charity shops. When he had first moved in, I’d pointed out with a smile that there was this wonderful little invention called a CD, and that there was no need for the big black circular discs. Indeed, I pointed out that some of the people I worked with wouldn’t have the faintest clue what an LP even was.

  One shelf held nothing but photos in frames. They were of the two of us, taken over the years, still as they had been the day he died, lightly dusted at the weekends.

  Don’t get me wrong. I hadn’t spent the last six years pining for him. I didn’t think about him all the time. But it was true that Mike had never left, and I had never let him go.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I did just that. After checking the oven’s temperature and putting my meal on a tray inside it, I went on a hunt for boxes. I found what I was looking for in the guest bedroom. They were the same boxes Mike had used when he’d moved in. He’d diligently removed all the tape, flattened them, and stood them against a wall. I picked up three or four of them, and took them back into the living room to reassemble them.

  While my dinner cooked, I made piles on the living room floor. Things of Mike’s I wanted to keep, and things that I could give away to charity shops. His clothes still hung in the wardrobe and lay folded in the drawers. They could all go. It wasn’t as if we were even the same size: Mike had always been broader than me in the shoulders and chest, and he was taller. And as it was, all his clothes were simply taking up space.

  I wasn’t about to get rid of everything. This was not a purge. The turntable and LPs were staying: I couldn’t get rid of those. But I had to admit that it was still our flat. Maybe it was time it became mine.

  When bedtime came that night, I snuggled under the duvet and closed my eyes.

  I did what you asked. That was why you came back, wasn’t it? To get me to move on? Well, I finally got the message. I’ve done it. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. You don’t have to drop in on me to see if I’m getting on with my life. I pushed as much sincerity into my voice as I could, hoping that wherever he was, Mike could hear me. Thank you. Thank you for caring enough about me to make sure that I carried on living. I promise, I’m going to do just that. Goodbye Mike.

  A calm settled over me, and I felt it had been the right thing to say. No more tears—I’d shed them all. And with that, I fell into a deep, rich, dreamless sleep.

  When I awoke the following morning, in spite of the dull grey beyond my window, inside my room it felt brighter somehow. I got up and trudged to the bathroom. As I lifted the lid of the toilet to pee, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “I see your aim’s improved.”

  I froze. “You’re still here?” Then his words sank in. “And you’re a right one to talk about aim.” How many times had I considered painting a red target just above the waterline? I bristled. “Some things haven’t changed in six years. Such as me liking my privacy.”

  Instantly, Mike disappeared, his exit more of a snap than a gentle fade. I shook my head. One of us had moved on apparently. I finished what I was doing, flushed, closed the lid, and washed my hands. Just as I was applying my toothbrush to my teeth, Mike’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  “I’ve been thinking. You need to go to a club. A gay club. I mean, I know we never did, but there’s a first time for everything, right? This is a new start, after all. And there are loads of clubs in London. So yeah, maybe tomorrow you should go to a club.”

  I was about to spit out my toothpaste when I remembered I didn’t need to speak out loud. Do you ever shut up?

  Don’t get shirty with me. I was just thinking, that’s all, that you never know where you might meet someone. Look at us. Think about how we met. He chuckled.

  I stifled my sigh. Mike, I am trying to get ready for work.

  But that doesn’t mean you can’t think about these things. And what’s wrong with clubs?

  You said it yourself. I don’t do clubs. I never did clubs.

  “But why not?” Mike asked forcefully out loud.

  I wasn’t about to reply. I was brushing my teeth, for God’s sake.

  “You’re only thirty-five. You won’t raise too many eyebrows when you get onto the dance floor.”

  Bastard.

  Mike chuckled. “Or you could go to a gay bar. You know, just one drink on a Saturday night.”

  And you know exactly how I spend my Saturdays. First item on the list is shopping. That hadn’t changed.

  “Ooh, get you.” I didn’t have to see Mike’s eye roll to know it was taking place. “Mr. Excitement.”

  An awful idea slowly dawned. Don’t go getting any ideas about livening up my shopping.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  I am saying, do not pull any more stunts like the one you pulled yesterday. That poor man. He must have thought he was going crazy.

  “What was his name again?”

  I rinsed away the last of the toothpaste, and the word fell from my lips without hesitation. “Ollie.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Ollie. Despite being a size queen, he was cute. I liked his hair. You know, the way he had it blown back from his forehead, and how the rest of it was really short.”

  “I can’t say I noticed.” Except now that he said it, I could picture Ollie’s face.

  Then I remembered the point of the conversation. “I don’t want to see you in the supermarket. I don’t want to see you at work today. I want a nice, peaceful day with no distractions, and I certainly don’t want to be poked with your dick again.”

  Silence, followed by a cough. “I never thought I’d hear those words from your lips.” He snorted.

  I groaned. Time had apparently done nothing to mellow his juvenile humour, which, I admit, al
ways made me smile. “You know what I mean.”

  “Spoilsport.” The sudden silence told me Mike had gone. And I breathed easier.

  Chapter Five

  Eighteen Days to Christmas

  I pushed my trolley around the supermarket, in no hurry. Saturday was usually my day for getting the flat straight. That meant groceries, cleaning, and doing the laundry. That much hadn’t changed in the last six years.

  I turned onto the aisle containing breakfast cereals, and paused to consult my list.

  Since when do you eat that crap?

  I jerked my head up. Mike was standing in front of my trolley, still naked.

  What are you talking about?

  He gestured to the shelf beside me. Those are loaded with sugar. Did I teach you nothing? If you want a breakfast that will really set you up for the day, then what’s wrong with porridge?

  I glanced down at my list where the word porridge was written. Then something got the better of me. I glared at him. What I eat is no longer your concern. And if I want to eat chocolate-frosted sugar bombs, I will eat chocolate-frosted sugar bombs. I reached out for the nearest box of sugar-loaded cereal, picked it up, and placed it deliberately in the trolley.

  Mike folded his arms. Well, carry on eating that lot, and no one will look at you.

  I’d had enough.

  You took care of yourself your whole life. You didn’t smoke, you drank in moderation, you almost lived in the gym, and yet you’re the one who died of a sudden heart attack. As soon as the words had left my mouth, I regretted them. My heart ached to see the hurt in Mike’s eyes. Hurt I’d put there. I’m sorry.

  He said nothing for a moment. They said that could have happened at any time. A defect that no one had ever picked up on. Even in my head his voice was so quiet.

  I’m sorry. Except I knew the words were not enough. Then a thought occurred to me. You were there? When the doctor talked me through how you’d… died?

  Not then, no. He shrugged. That was later. Mike sighed. Just get on with your shopping. He glanced into the trolley again. He arched his eyebrows. Wow. Maybe it’s a good thing I showed up today. Because someone needs to talk to you about your shopping habits.

  I aimed the trolley at him and pushed, half wondering whether it would go through him. I got my answer when the trolley gave a jolt, as if it had run into a wall.

  Mike smirked. If you want me to leave, you only have to ask.

  Just let me get on with my shopping, all right? Mike stepped aside, and I continued along the aisle until I reached the biscuits. His words still burned me, and I scanned the shelf for the most indulgent chocolate biscuits I could find. When I found something that fit the bill, I picked up a packet and slung it into the trolley.

  “What have those poor cookies ever done to you?”

  It took me a second to realize it wasn’t Mike’s voice. I looked up and found Ollie standing next to me, wearing the same jacket he’d worn the previous day and pushing a trolley, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “I was miles away.”

  Ollie chuckled. “I find that’s the only way to get through the shopping. It’s like I’m on autopilot. Not exactly one of the highlights of my weekend.”

  “Oh, I hear you on that one.”

  Ollie smiled. “I don’t know about you, but my Saturdays are to be endured, rather than enjoyed. I use them to get everything dull and boring out of the way for the rest of the week.”

  I nodded slowly. “Let me guess. Laundry, cleaning…”

  He laughed. “A fellow sufferer. You have my sympathies. What makes it worse is that I’m in the middle of a huge clear out.” He held up a yellow Post-it. “Oh well, back to the list. It was nice seeing you again.”

  “You too.”

  Ollie gave me a polite smile, then continued on his way. I looked around cautiously, but there was no sign of Mike. I wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t meant to sound so brutal.

  My shopping paid for, and the plastic bags containing my groceries loaded into the trolley, I headed for the door. As I passed the café, my nostrils flared at the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Why not? I have time, and the laundry can wait.

  I located the lockers where shopping could be stowed safely, then headed back to the café. I ordered a latte, and was going to leave it at that, until a piece of stollen caught my eye. Two rich pastries into days. I’d better not make a habit of this. I took my tray and found an empty booth. Around me, customers were enjoying all day breakfasts, a roast lunch, and a lot of mince pies.

  “Okay, this is getting to be a bit creepy. Who precisely is stalking who?”

  I glanced up. Ollie stood next to my table, a tray in hand. I took a furtive look around, convinced this was Mike’s doing. Still no sign of him, so I relaxed.

  “Seeing as you found me in the aisles and here, the finger of suspicion is aiming right at you, I’d say.” I gestured to the empty bench facing me. “Do you want to join me?”

  “Sure.” Ollie slid into the bench and deposited his mug and plate on the table. The music changed, and the air was filled with the sound of Wizzard wishing it could be Christmas every day. Ollie closed his eyes.

  “It gets a bit much, right?” I sympathized. “All the Christmas songs they play for weeks on end.”

  Ollie opened his eyes. “It’s not that. Just… memories.”

  I sighed. “Tell me about it.” Then something he’d said earlier sank in. “You’re not the only one having a clear out. I spent all last night packing boxes for the charity shops.”

  Ollie widened his eyes. “Me too. I’ve been putting it off.” He dumped a packet of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “I thought I’d feel better once I’d started, but…”

  “Are you okay?” I blurted out before I had a chance to think. I smiled. “That’s the second time I’ve asked you that.”

  Ollie did a quick scan of the supermarket café. “Just had this overwhelming feeling of déjà vu. Thought I’d better make sure someone isn’t lurking nearby, holding a salami.”

  I laughed. “I think you’re safe.” I knew he was—Mike wasn’t around.

  Ollie took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for asking though. I wasn’t just saying that yesterday, by the way. You really did make it easier.”

  There was something about him, an air of sorrow that clung to him. “Want to share? I’m a stranger. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

  “They say that, don’t they?” He took another sip of coffee. Then he pointed to my stollen. “You haven’t tried it yet.”

  I cut off a small piece with the edge of my fork, and tasted it, unable to hold back the small moan of pleasure that escaped me. “I love marzipan. Best thing about Christmas.” I gestured to the plate. “Try a piece.”

  Ollie hesitated, before cutting off a small piece with his own knife. Judging by his expression, he found the pastry just as delicious.

  “If it helps,” I said slowly, “yesterday was important for me too.”

  Ollie regarded me thoughtfully. “Do you often go to that coffee shop?”

  I shook my head. “That was my first time.”

  He sighed. “I can't tell you how many times I’ve been there. It was one of my favourites—well, our favourites—that is, mine and my former… boyfriend’s.” His gaze flickered up to my face. “Normally, I’m nervous about sharing that with strangers. You never know who you’re talking to, do you? But I get a feeling with you that it’s okay. Don’t ask me how.”

  I had to smile. “The gaydar is strong in this one.” Inside, I was bowled over. He’s gay?

  Ollie’s eyes were huge. “No way. Well, that definitely explains it.”

  “Can I ask you something about your choice of vocabulary just now? You said former, not ex.”

  Ollie nodded, his face tightening a little. “Jay died three years ago, and yesterday was the first time I went back there.” I stared at him, struck by the coincidences. Ollie frowned. “Have I said something wrong?”


  “No, not at all,” I hasten to assure him. “It’s just that… yesterday was a first for me too. I tend to avoid coffee shops at Christmas. Too many memories. It was something I used to do with…” His name stuck in my throat.

  Ollie’s eyes glistened. “You’ve lost someone too.” It wasn’t a question. Then he reached across the table and covered my hand with his in a surprisingly intimate gesture. “You don’t have to tell me, okay? I mean that. And I think I’ve done all my sharing for today.” He gave my hand a squeeze before releasing it and wrapping it around his mug. I followed suit and drank my latte. We sat in silence for a moment, not that it was quiet—Wizzard had gone, to be replaced by Paul McCartney, singing about the pipes of peace.

  After a moment, Ollie sighed again. “You think you’re doing well. You think you’re coping.”

  I couldn’t resist. “You think you’ve moved on.”

  Ollie chuckled. “Oh wow. You really do get it.” He cocked his head to one side. “How long has it been… since you lost him?”

  “Six years. It didn’t occur to me until yesterday that I was surrounded by him. All his things were still there.” I forked off another piece of stollen, trying not to think about packing what was left of Mike into boxes.

  “Yeah, same here. It was almost like I could hear him, telling me I had to do something. Going back to that coffee shop felt like the logical first step.”

  Suddenly it struck me. “And last night you were going home to start the clear out. That’s why you were so reluctant to leave.”

  Ollie gave another nod. “It felt so… final.”

  “And yet, when I’d done it, it felt right.”

  Ollie wiped his eyes. “Yeah.” He smiled at me. “Seems like I wasn’t quite done sharing after all.” He cocked his head again. “Just like it feels right saying all this to you. The fact that you’re in the same boat only confirms it. We were meant to have this conversation, if you believe in such things.”

  I stifled my chuckle. Mike definitely qualified as such a thing. And then it struck me. “Can I ask you something? Is this where you normally shop?”