A Dockers© Christmas

One side of the story is this: Jenna used her neighbor’s oven to bake me what she called an apple pancake—this was really more of a coffee cake with syrup on top than any pancake I’ve ever heard of—and there’s little evidence to suggest that this apple breakfast/dessert would have existed at all if I hadn’t come over with a good face to have a slice. In other words, she baked it for me.
Considering this, I sat down at the table and told her it was the most handsome piece of breakfast I had ever been served. She looked over at me with a turn of her hips that offered answers to all sorts of questions I didn’t even know I wanted to ask. I probably didn’t look at her face—I probably couldn’t, and I certainly don’t remember it—but her apron was a solid bright blue that made me feel as though I was looking into next week, or the following month—some other time.
The fact that this was my second breakfast was not a problem—at least, I hadn't counted on it being one. Despite a full stomach, I was confident I could hold down at least one more full plate, and I knew Jenna couldn’t have known the truth: Sally was waiting for me in the front passenger seat of my '91 Grand Cherokee, parked down the block and left running. She was probably getting a little cold. I know that in every way this deception is a gross thing—it seems disgusting to me, even slovenly: it is nothing but lies—but I can't take it any other way. I just won’t.
Every Christmas I eat so much that my eyes hurt. Maybe you’ll tell me that this is another way of saying that I like a good nap after a large meal, but I’ll tell you that there is a specific pain in the white part of my eyes after a Christmas dinner that I’ve never heard anyone else speak of. Maybe it is exhaustion. That’s what my grandmother would likely say. She always thinks I’m tired, and she thinks it’s lovely to tell me so, as if it’s a favor on her part, a way of telling me I am doing good things with my life and it is wearing me down with a virtuous grind. She has no idea what I do with my days.
Jenna hung up her apron and sat down to tell me that she was thinking of buying a new car, something more compact and in an orange or a red, and would I help her look? She has always wanted an orange or red car, I know this, so I told her yes, and that I’d have some time after the holidays to help her get started. I didn’t think she’d be pleased with that response—she doesn’t like anyone delaying her plans—but she smiled and seemed contented. The way she buys and sells, the way she can’t be predicted or argued with—that’s what keeps the hooks in. I began to wish I had come in with more of an appetite.
I told her I had to leave, and she jumped up to wrap the rest of the apple pancake, which she handed over to me bundled in tinfoil with a small Tupperware container of syrup. Real maple syrup, the good kind. The true kind.
“A kiss on the forehead?” she said. It was a question. I said yes, and she gave me one, telling me Merry Christmas and that I always looked handsome when there was snow on the ground, when it was cold outside. I'll tell you, these days it always seems to be cold outside.
The car was still running when I got back and handed Sally the leftover breakfast, and I realized when I got behind the wheel that I had a thin ribbon of syrup running down the lap of my khakis. I moistened two fingers with a bit of saliva and did my best to remove it. It came right off, and tasted sweet on my fingers.
Sally looked over at me. “Hey,” she said. “Nice pants.” She paused for a minute. “Let’s get out of here.”
They were nice pants. And we left.


Erick Nordenson