Snow crunches under every step. The monotonous marching lulls me into contemplation.
I’ll be 27 next year. I’m making almost the same pay as when I was fresh out of college. I have a job I don’t particularly like or hate. Most nights I come home to an apartment so boringly still, I just got to bed to speed through the night and escape the vast nothing inhabiting my 4 room prison. Right hand to god, my life has barely changed over the past five years, yet I was unfeasibly more happy last Christmas than I am this year.
I take a left at the stop sign. My movement; nearly robotic. The 7/11 is only a few more blocks away, a path so trodden I barely have to think to get there. I check my watch: 12:17 AM. A chilled breeze lacerates my chin and cheeks—my black zip up jacket and beanie aren’t enough in this weather. I’m exhausted, but every breath of frozen air jogs me up, if only a little. I can’t believe I used to enjoy these midnight snack runs. I used to do them semi frequently until last Christmas. Then again, I was never alone when I used to do them.
Damn, I’m doing it again. As per usual, her presence crawls back into my thoughts. What a ruinous state of being, having the source of eight years of happiness be someone so abominable. A liar. A cheater. Eight years of dating. Eight years of learning every stupid detail, every inane preference. Eight years of having someone to rely on. Eight years of being a shoulder to cry on. All down the drain. For what?
Last Christmas, I gave her my heart: a silver ring and my last name. But the very next day, I found that she gave it away. I got a call from George, my closest friend since high school, and what does he tell me? Two and a half years. 30 months of my best friend and my newly ordained fiance stabbing my back. I felt crucified. He sent screenshots of their conversations, snapshots of flirting, begging, plotting. Christ, they even talked about me, about my mom. The coup de grâce? None of her messages showed even a glimmer of remorse. I confronted her, and what did she start doing? Sobbing. I can’t help but question why. Was it the fact that she got caught? Or did she really feel awful for hurting me? Did she care? Was it the ring? I promised myself then that this year, to save me from tears, I’d only give my heart to someone special, someone I could trust. Better luck next year I guess.
“Happy Christmas” I whispered when I handed over the gift. I wrapped it up and gave it, with a note saying I love you, and I meant it.
I can’t believe I never saw, never even had a clue. Now I know what a fool I’ve been. But, on nights like these, where the wind is cold and the streets are barren, I can’t help thinking that if she kissed me now, she’d have me fooled again.
Once bitten, and twice as shy—I was practically paralyzed. I didn’t feel like moving for months. I felt desolate and hopeless, like looking down the barrel of a gun; an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. After a few months I finally started dragging my body out, trying to partake in things I used to enjoy, simulating happiness. Come December, what do I spy? Her, with another guy. Giggling the way we used to. At our old coffee spot nonetheless. Well, it’s been a year, it doesn’t surprise me.
Suddenly, a light at the end of the barrel: the 7/11 sign. Illuminating a neon glow, I peer into the store. Shiesty and robbable, I never thought a 7/11 could be filled with so many memories. The jingle welcomes my dilapidated self as I slug over to the slurpee machine. I walk up to Ringo, the overworked graveyard shift teenager. It wasn’t until I started stifling through my wallet that I noticed something. A sound coming from some unseen, yet shoddy speaker. It’s George Michael. He’s singing about Last Christmas.