Gifts to Give Goth Girls
He'd been preparing since the night of the horror that was
Thanksgiving with his family; that is to say, staring into his plate of apple pie, he'd thought that he should think about what
sorts of Christmas presents she might like, but he hadn't got much farther.
With four days to go, and the Mayan apocalypse nigh, he thought maybe an LED lamp
or Swiss Army-type tool. Practical, in case the end of the world did occur, and
besides, the electricity in her apartment had just been shut off for the second
time this year and it was quite gloomy after five o'clock.
Of course, when she broke up with him for giving her such
stupid presents, she would have a lovely weapon with which to gouge, slice,
nick and ram him to death. Perhaps a pashmere scarf: not pashmina, nor
cashmere, but soft, and it came in black.
And the lamp, he decided at the last second.
So armed, he met her at the coffee shop down the street. They've
never discussed exchanging presents, and he thought how clever of him to give
her something this night: all the pressure off, really, and he could show her
that he knew a little something about her particular subculture by wishing her a happy Saturnalia. Already seated, she rolled her eyes and responded
that she wasn't Pagan, idiot.
He handed her the box with the scarf, and watched as she
gleefully ripped the Jack Skellington paper off and took it out and fingered
it. It was only a scarf, he saw now. Impersonal, made in China, and fringed. Fringed. What Goth girl wanted knotted
fringe?
He gave her the second box. Showed her how the lamp worked.
The grumpy barista shielded his eyes, spilled steamed milk on his hand, and
made noises to his fellow employees that he was sure meant, "Uncool, dude.
Uncool."
It was a disaster.
Except that she rose from her seat, black tunic flowing over
black leggings, put on her puffy silver coat, and led him out the door, back to
her apartment.
The bright white of the LEDs suited her. Washed in their
light, her pale skin turned a luminous blue-white. They wriggled underneath
seven layers of comforters, and the only thing she wore was the scarf, which
she took off halfway through and wrapped around his neck.
If the world did end, he decided, that would be just fine.
She kissed his shoulder with lips much pinker than usual and snuggled into
him, the ancient radiator clanking into life like a grumpy barista. It was a
non-holiday, faux apocalyptic miracle.
