The Gift

It was godawful corny, if you have to know. A whole lot of sentimental slop. But he wrote it down for her, because he had no idea what she would like. Not that he didn’t think. Oh, he thought. And thought. And thought a little more. It had to make some sort of statement, you see. Something which said that, he was smart…and that even if he pretended that he didn’t care, he did. It had to have a bit of psychedelia and flower power…she liked all that sixties crap… and…well…it had to be a tinge sentimental…’cause whether she admitted or not, she was every bit the sentimentalist. Anyway…and there would be art work. Van Gogh or Dali…maybe Renoir…maybe even Ansel Adams…she was obsessing a bit about photography of late. So, you see…no-one could accuse him of being unobservant or uncaring. Its just that she wasn’t all that easy to figure out.

He didn’t think he could conquer her with his looks. He had always been a little funny looking. A tad too tall, limbs that went on forever, ears which stuck out at all the wrong angles, a nose that was too long for comfort, and eyes that were far too myopic. But everyone said he had a nice smile. If only he’d smile more often…
He was a clever ol’ fellow though. He knew his stuff. He wrote, read and composed with élan and sophistication…in the classroom, he was unbeatable. Outside…well…he got beaten a lot. So he stayed at home…with his paints, brushes and piano. Read a lot, smoked a lot and tried to establish himself as more of an intellectual, and less of a certified geek. It worked to an extent. It worked with her. Or maybe she saw him for exactly what he was…and still liked him. Either way…she was his. Quite an achievement, he thought.

He took his poor old struggling artist’s satchel bag and a big puff of his cigarette…and trotted off to meet his lady love. She…she was everything wonderful. At least to him, she was. She was an actress. Theatre of course. Pretty and witty. If only, if only, she could sit still. “Oh I don’t care much for all the post-modernist jazz”, she said smoking her zillionth cigarette. “But hey, it’s a living. Give me good ol’ melodrama any day…”…she said stirring her martini and pushing back a strand of her jet black hair. “I mean”, she continued, “its not that I have anything against Becket or Ibsen or anyone…its just that…you know…its all they can talk about…those…those snobs…I mean…do they even know what they are saying? They just love the fact that they are so damn smart…and believe me, they aren’t. They just mug up their lines really well…especially that scruffy arty guy. You know, the one…smoking weed all the time? And then there’s that Professor. He is such a sarcastic piece of shit. God, all I want to do is dissipate when I see him. He thinks he’s some sort of Oxford cream, but all he is, is a bitter old junkie. ”

He didn’t care much for her company. She was right…they were all arty snobs. But all very popular. He wondered what that would be like. But who cares. She was there. Smoking her menthols and sipping her martinis. Her short hair tousled carelessly, her innocuous dimples right there, her naughty twinkling eyes smiling at him. Life was good.“Uh…so…you wanna see it, or what?”, he said…his heart pounding a little for some reason. “Ooh! Yes! The present! I’m so sorry dear…its just that I’ve been having the most disastrous day…with that guy putting me down all the time…and the shoes so awfully tight…I just…oh well…never mind. Let’s see what you’ve got.” She started unwrapping the old brown paper which held her birthday present and card…letter…both. Anyway, “You’re really something, you know”, she said while tearing at the paper with impatience, “really something. Thank you. For whatever it is. I love you for the thought and all. Even if it sounds corny. Or rude. Or both”. At last she opened it. The poem was on top, in his scrawly handwriting. The Peanuts collection beneath that (“Snoopy!” she exclaimed), and the collage…Van Gogh, Dali, Renoir, Adams…the lot…and he had to admit himself, it looked pretty darned good. She was grinning ear to ear…her dimples conspicuous as ever…his heart still beating a little faster than usual. “Well?”

“They went ahead and did so many things

We escaped and sank deeper into sin...

The motley van had left without us,

Forty years had passed,

We discovered ourselves in a broken bus.”

She read from the paper. Smiled again and looked out of the window of the café in which they were sitting. “I like it”, she breathed. And smiled again, her eyes far away. “Is something wrong?” he asked. She shook her head in disagreement and kissed him on his cheek tenderly. “Thank you. Really, thank you”. He smiled this time. “Glad you liked it”. She nodded, her eyes still wistful and melancholy, the smile plastered on her face. He felt a bit unsettled. She stopped fidgeting with her stirrer, and stubbed out her cigarette. “I have to go”, she said abruptly. “But why?” he asked, colouring a little. “We just met!” But she was already getting up and nodding absently. He grabbed her arm and looked into her eyes. He saw fear. And he let go, puzzled beyond belief. “What happened? Just tell me once…is it something I said? Wrote? I mean, come on! We’re supposed to be happy today! It’s your birthday and everything. Did that guy piss you off? Should I…” “I –I have to go”, she cut him off. And he stood there speechless, as he saw her walk out of the café, her hips swinging sweetly from side to side.