211 lay on his bed, scrolling through his newsfeed. A sudden gust of wind rattled the ill-fitted window to his apartment room, causing him to glance up for the first time in over an hour. Fat, white snowflakes were pressing against the pane, making bizarre patterns as they nestled in against each other.
Christmas eve, alone as always.
211 rolled out of bed, bumping his foot against the box on the floor, its carboard material completely masked by layer upon layer of packing tape. Opening it up for the fifth time that day, 211 glanced down at the coloured bags of cookies, peanut brittle, and chocolates that lay within. A little piece of home, sent by Mom.
Sighing, 211 closed the flaps, and pushed it back under his bed. Somehow, not even homemade cookies could wring the dried-up Christmas spirit out of him. Christmas cookies belonged on that frosted glass cookie plate in Mom’s cupboard, the one with the chip out of the right side. They belonged on the kitchen table back home, in front of a roaring fireplace, surrounded by familiar faces, loud music, laughter, and good cheer. They didn’t belong here, and neither did Christmas.
211 tried to open the window, but it jammed after moving a couple centimeters, so he gave up and closed it again. Wiping away the condensation, he gazed out at the masses of traffic down below. Even all the way up here, he could feel the panic, the tension, the stress. Too many people rushing about on last minute errands, glancing at their watches, asking staff what time they closed. Every other car had snowflake decals or “Happy Holidays” bumper stickers; every other person walking was in Christmas sweaters, red-white-and-green jackets, or wearing ostentatious dollar-store Santa hats.
And yet… There was no “peace on earth”, no “joy to the world”. The 25th of December was just a deadline to meet up with old relatives you couldn’t stand the other 364 days of the year. A money-sink before the new year, where you had to buy Hallmark cards and cheap gifts for every acquaintance you kept, or risk being the Grinch of the year. A time when parents, already struggling under the burdens of the economy, squeezed out a little more of their life to buy plastic crap for their kids. A time of the year that every retail or service-industry employee dreaded. A time for endless remixes of long-worn out songs. Christmas was not with them. And it wasn’t with 211 either.
A rustle at his door broke into his musings. The sound of someone fiddling with his doorknob… then a light tapping of something swinging against his door, as the footsteps receded. Curious, he unbolted the latch and peeked out.
Braving the winter chill was 210, the girl from next door. She slipped by each room like a red-coated ghost, leaving a small package hanging from each doorknob. Looking at his own, he saw a singular Lindt chocolate dangling by some Christmas-striped ribbonry, next to a little business card-sized Christmas card.
As he detached the gift, 210 turned around from her mission, heading for the staircase, and the two locked eyes. 210 gave a shy smile and a little wave, which 211 awkwardly returned.
“Me-rry-Christ-mas!” 210 mouthed over the wind, before ascending to the 3rd floor, leaving 211 alone with his package.
Was she really going to visit every resident’s door tonight? 211 tried to recall anything he knew about 210, but he rarely ran into the other residents, even those on his floor. Much like himself, she never seemed to have anyone over, she never had her TV or music on loud enough to hear, and she mostly kept to herself. 211 could’ve sworn he saw her in the park, reading by herself on a couple occasions, but it was not something he ever bothered to confirm.
A particularly strong gust of wind brought 211 back to his senses, and he slipped the door shut again, taking the little package with him. Looking closer, the tiny Christmas card seemed to be hand-made, with rough edges where a well-worn pair of scissors had unevenly cut it out from its sibling cards. Some little plastic confetti bells, wreaths, and snowflakes had been glued around the bright green-on-red “Merry Christmas” message, and the back was plain white, with two simple passages in black Comic Sans font;
Unwrapping the chocolate, 211 popped it into his mouth whole. It was creamy, a rich kind of chocolate he wouldn’t normally pick out for himself. But somehow, he felt a little thawing inside of him, a hint of Christmas Past trying to break out from his world-weary heart.
And then, he turned and re-entered his room, and the hint of Christmas passed. This is how his holiday would be spent; a dark room with a single table and chair, a now-thawed turkey pot pie ready to be microwaved, and a 2-litre bottle of Cranberry Canada Dry, much too large for one person. Sighing again, 211 transferred the pie from its tinfoil plate into a microwave-safe dish and began heating it. Really, there was no need to feel depressed. He was alone every other day of the year, why should it especially bother him today?
He opened his phone again, swiping through dozens of ambiguously-phrased “Season’s Greetings” and “Happy Holidays”. See? There was no Christmas. Not in his room, not out there, not anywhere. There was no reason to feel alone. None at all.
His microwave beeped. 211 got up and cut into the pie. Still warm on the outside, cold in the center. That sounded familiar. He put the pie in for another couple minutes, sitting back down to wait.
Footsteps sounded nearby, and he heard the next door over open and shut. 210 was back, was she? 211 sat and let his mind wander. He wondered if she was alone now, too. Was she getting ready to heat up some ready-made, vaguely Christmas-themed meal? Was she staring at her phone, wondering why we all know so many people, yet feel so very alone? Had the winter of a joyless adulthood sucked the warmth from her Christmas spirit as well? No, she still had that, he thought, looking down at the Christmas card on his table.
The microwaved beeped.
Maybe he should visit her.
*Beep*
He could bring the pie over.
*Beep*
Maybe the cookies and soda too.
*Beep*
He could say he made too much for one person.
The microwave finally lay silent, and 211 did likewise. No, better not to risk it. Maybe she had a long-distance relationship. Maybe she had family coming over, or she was heading over to them. Maybe she just liked being alone. If he went over and she turned him down, there would be no salvaging his Christmas. Better to stay just-shy of rock bottom than to risk everything on a leap of faith.
His eyes strayed over the back of her Christmas card.
“Fear not”. A simple phrase, easy to say. What did it know? 211 stood up and took the pie out of the microwave. Fear was healthy. It kept you from hurting yourself. He grabbed the soda bottle and his box of home-sent goodies. He wasn’t so naïve that he’d let a homemade card and a scripture passage tell him how to live. He put on his shoes and walked next door. Before he really knew what he was doing, he found himself knocking on 210’s door with his elbow.
There was silence inside. Drifting snowflakes landed on 211’s pie, melting into little droplets. Of course she didn't want to see him. It’s not like they ever talked before today.
A sound of footsteps, and the door creaked open.
“Hello?” 210 stood in the doorway. Behind her, 211 could see a dark apartment room, single chair, single table, a cellphone lying on it, still glowing from her recent browsing. The hum of a microwave was the only sound breaking the stillness.
“Oh, you’re…” she started.
“Alex,” he blurted out. “Alex O’Toole. I live next door.”
“Jaipreet.” She smiled. “Jaipreet Kaur. I thought I recognized you.” She looked down at his loaded arms. “Did you… want to come in?”
“Uh, sure. Made too much for one person,” he mumbled, slipping in after her and taking off his shoes, closing the door behind him.
Outside, as the sun set and the grocery stores closed up for the night, a snow-muffled darkness and stillness settled over the town, and the apartment complex.
But from the window to apartment room 210, a warm glow radiated through the night, accompanied by loud music, laughter, and good cheer.
At long last, Christmas had come.
ns 172.71.254.201da2
and then Add to home screen.