christmas

Two friends, on gifts.

Charles: Has my parcel arrived?

Cecily: It has not. Believe me, when it does, you will know about it. I will be so excited.

Charles: But you don’t even know what it is yet.

Cecily: I assume you only ever gift great books and letters.

Charles: Not untrue.

Alexander, on his mother.

Alexander: My mother is constantly one glass of Prosecco away from buying seventeen cats.

Cecily, a Christmas story.

Cecily: I wanted a toy unicorn. I had an inside joke about one with my lover Yves, and I wanted to give the unicorn to him for Christmas. I announced my desire to find one rather publicly. Jonathan loved me so much he haunted every shop in Paris on Christmas Eve to find me that unicorn. He didn’t know why I wanted it, just that he could give me something I wanted, and that he could make me smile.

He found that unicorn and bought it for me for Christmas. It showed up under my tree all glittering and shining via beautiful guilt-laced adoration. And now I have it. And it was always intended for Yves.

Two friends, on being home for Christmas.

Cecily: How’s the family?

Alexander: I had lunch with my father. The first twenty minutes was spent awkwardly playing with condensation on the table in silence.

Delilah, to Cecily.

Delilah: So, brother, I’ve been shook the fuck up. You must be Jesus, the devil, or some kind of prescient energy force that transcends the need for physical form but comes to humans in the form of a slightly manic, dry-witted succubus.