“No? Name one thing you like that isn’t grim.”
“Grim? I like things that aren’t grim.”
“No. You like things that are grim. And ghoulish, violent. Sometimes gross.” Sometimes sad.
“What are you—”
“The Thing?Scarface?”
“I like happy things.”
I make a disbelieving noise. “Name one Christmas movie you’ve watched.”
It’s his turn to snuffle cynically. “I’ve not watched any.”
“None? At all?”
“Not that I remember.” He hums. “Oh, wait.Die Hard. That’s a—”
“Absolutely not.” I’m shaking my head and smiling, despite myself. “No way. That’s an action movie that happens to take place on Christmas. Not the same.”
“All right. Name a classic. Something I should see before I die.”
“Uh,Miracle on 34th Street.It’s a Wonderful Life!A Christmas Carol.”
“That’s a book.”
“Yeah, well, there are like a million movie versions. Even the Muppets did one, so—”
“I’ve watchedNightmare Before Christmas.”
I roll my eyes so hard he can probably see the whites in the dark. “Oh wait, hold on! I know. You’re from the UK. How aboutLove, Actually?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” His voice echoes through the tiny space, loud down here, as if his head’s tilted my way. “No!”
“What? Are you kidding? Why not?”
“Don’t tell me you think it’s romantic.”
“Itis!”
“Bullocks! It’s crap! It’s absolute shite. A bunch of stories, or whatever, about good people getting shafted or settling or, God, you should know this, it’s all about women being given the short end of the stick. Over and over and over again. What is it about that stupid film that makes people think it’s better than it is? Not a Christmas movie, by the way. Not even a little.”
“Well, I beg to differ. I mean, I guess I see that Emma Thompson storyline’s not the most feminist, but there’s the Hugh Grant one, right? It’s sweet and, oh, oh, the Colin Firth story with the Portuguese woman, who—”
“You mean the cleaner? Hisemployee, who literally can’t understand a word the rich, foreign visitor’s saying? That’s romantic, is it? Abuse of power? And Hugh Grant’s the bloody prime minister, right? Most powerful person in Great Britain. Honestly. It’s fucking shocking that… Oh, and the worst one. The bloody worst of them all is the Keira Knightley subplot, which is morally, ethicallyfucked.” He’s not wrong, I concede. I’ve always felt weird about that one. “Do you know how old she was when she played that role? Barely legal is how old. The bloke’s a lying, cheating bastard and she’s—”
“It’s sweet and sad! Unrequited love. The poor man feels he has to tell her before he can move on! Come on. There are other good stories in the movie, about people who are well-meaning and kind and do the right thing.”
“Right. Like Laura Linney caretaking her brother and missing out on the hottest night of her life with a man that most women I know would sell their left tit to snog, given the chance. That’s yourrightthing, is it?” I can hear the air quotes in that sentence. “Could you tell me how that can possibly be construed as romantic? It’s bloody not. No. No, it’s certainly not a Christmas film. And if it is…” The sigh he lets out is heavy, almost beaten, despite him pretty much making his point. “If that’s what it’s all about, I’d rather not celebrate.” After a pause, he says, “Sorry. My world view’s crap sometimes.”
Another pause. Ticking somewhere close by, like pipes heating or going cold. His breathing’s loud, like the grit under his soles as his feet shuffle beside me.
“I hate Christmas anyway, so bah humbug.” Fabric ghosts against the side of my face.
Instead of chasing it with my cheek, I dig deeper into the coat. It’s warm and soft on the inside. The lining’s slick. Silk, maybe. It feels expensive. Heavy. Substantial. “I don’t hate it.”
I remember the pine needle scent of the tree when Dad would drag it inside, fresh from the Boy Scouts’ lot. It was always too tall and he’d have to use a worn, wide-toothed saw to take off the stump and get sawdust on the floor. It was a mess to clean up, but it didn’t feel like work with Louis Armstrong singing that he had his love to keep him warm. “Christmas is the best.”
