"Something Christmassy. "(Kevin Hughes) It was almost six O’clock on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t expecting anymore customers. For about the millionth time that day a fleeting thought crossed my mind. How Ironic that I run a Christmas Gift Shop, and yet I have no one to buy a gift for. Like each of my last five Christmases before, I will go home alone, spike my egg nog with a tiny bit of Rum, turn on either "Miracle on 34th Street,” or: "The Bishop’s Wife”. If I feel a bit more modern, then it is either: “Home Alone,” or, “Elf,”.

I know, it isn’t much, but it's my traditional Christmas Evening. And I do have the family size Maria Calendar’s Chicken Pot pie as my feast - waiting for me too. It is enough for me. At least I always thought so.

The bell tingled over the door. I glanced at the clock (ten minutes to six!). Whoever it was, was cutting it close. It wouldn’t matter, I would just tell them they could take their time. I don’t close on time just to stick to the rules. I want people leaving my shop with something they decided on, not something they bought in a hurry. So I yelled out:

“We close in ten minutes, but don’t worry, you can take your time!”

A young strong male voice filled with wry humor answered me back from the door way. I could hear him stomping off the snow on his boots. Already he earned a point for caring about my wooden floors.

“Well, I am going to need some help.”

I smiled. So typically male.

“What do you need?”

His back was to me. I could see he had broad shoulders, and the hand he had placed on my doorsill to hold himself up, looked strong and work hardened. He had unbuckled his boots, and was pulling them off to set by the door. He didn’t want to traipse any loose snow through my shop. He went up another point in my estimation. Most Customers couldn't care less about keeping my floors dry.

His voice was still strong …but I could hear the hesitation in his words.

“I…I…I don’t really know. I was thinking just some small trinket or sparkly thing …you know, something really Christmassy feeling.”

“Well, who is it for? Your wife, girlfriend, Mother…maybe?”

I heard him laugh for the first time. And that should be a gift all on its own. My heart fluttered at the pureness of that laugh.

“None of those. The first two because I don’t have either. The last one because I am adopted…and (I could hear the sadness in his voice) believe me the woman and man who raised me - just wanted the Money from the Courts and not me. So, no, there is no Mother either.“

I had finally reached the front of my store. I gently placed one hand on his shoulder. I knew the pain of being alone. I was eighteen when my Mom and Dad died in a car accident. They left me this shop in their Will. I knew I would never sell it, or close it.

“I am sorry you are alone on Christmas.”

He laughed again. His laugh was like magic. It had power. I loved hearing it, and wanted to hear it again. It was a different laugh than the first one. This one was gently chiding himself.

“Yeah, well, sometimes it ends up that way.”

I had to change the mood, and the train of thought so I just blurted out:

“Yeah. Me too. Alone on Christmas. But at least I have my shop.”

“You own this place?”

He said that to me as he turned to step into the shop. He stopped when he saw me. I drew in a breath. In his eyes I could see right through to his heart. He thought I was beautiful. That made my heart flutter. But I don’t know if he even knew he looked like an Angel. (As I discovered later, he did not…he had no ego at all. At least about his looks.)

For a long moment we both just stared at each other. Both unsure what to do…or say. He glanced up above the door where the bell was. I had completely forgotten that a sprig of Mistletoe hung there waiting to complete the tradition.

He turned beat red, pointed at the sprig of mistletoe and said to me in the most soft hopeful voice I had ever heard outside of from small children wanting a treat:

“Does that still work?”

I leaned up to meet his lips. It was not forced in any way. Just a safe and moist hug disguised as a kiss. If I had to describe it in any way, I would have to call it: welcoming.

Later, we had eggnog with just a tad bit of Rum. We watched all four of my favorite movies, and his favorite : “White Christmas.” The Chicken pot pie was nothing more than a memory. We fell asleep, fully clothed, on my big overstuffed couch.

I woke up to his laugh. And his words:

“My arm is still asleep! I don’t think there is any blood in it.”

I raised my head off his arm, alarmed that he had let it sit without any blood in it all night, just so he wouldn’t wake me up.

He laughed as he pulled his arm down and started to massage it. Forcing the blood to tingle as it returned to his fingers. I helped.

It was Christmas Morning. I stood up, and offered a hand to him. He used his good arm, the other still a bit lifeless and tingling, to reach out for my hand. Once he was standing, we kissed…again. Just as soft. Just as welcoming. Just as wonderful as the first one at the door to my shop.

Suddenly he stopped and slapped his forehead with his hand.

“What?!” I shrieked.

“I forgot to get you a gift, we have to go back to your shop.”

I laughed out loud.

“What?”

He said with more than a little confusion in his voice.

I poked his chest lightly.

“You already gave me a gift!”

“I did?”

I smiled up at him.

“Yes. You.”

“Me? What gift did I give you?”

“A Christmas where I am not alone.”

He smiled back.

“Hey, that’s the same gift you gave me!”

“I know, kinda Christmassy …isn’t it?”

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