Nick

An eyeroll emoji. A freaking eyeroll emoji. The dreaded day’s arrived: my nine-year-old’s too cool for her dad.

My phone chirps again: srsly dad??? pix w/santa? what am i, 5?

I’ve finished emptying the last of the donation bins. Still got to inventory the contents, weed out the expired shit, but Mac said he’d help with that after the early evening rush. I should touch up the lettering too: how’s anyone supposed to see “PY AN FOO ANT” and get “HAPPY BEAN FOOD PANTRY”? No wonder donations are down!

I fire off a text while I wait: got ur skates sharpened 2day. or u too grown up for that too?

wanna see shawn mendes.

he hottttttttt <3

Oh, no. Uh-uh. None of that. My thumbs fly: katie, u r way 2 young to be saying “hottttttttt.” or thinking it. and u have homework. or if u don’t u can clean ur room. or my room. clean something and get off the internet.

The ellipsis icon barely flashes, before another eyeroll pops up. Then two hearts, a sushi roll, and a Grinch head.

I’m thirty years old, feeling ancient.

What’s wrong with Santa, anyway?

It’s not just Katie. People are way too cynical about Christmas, in general. Christmas music, Christmas lights, Christmas decorations: it seems a waste, if you’re only going to appreciate them one day out of the year. So what if it’s barely Thanksgiving? No such thing as “too early. I love those YouTube videos where people turn their whole houses into spectacles, with hundreds of thousands of lights on timers, flashing their way through Silver Bells or Ride of the Valkyries. I love Santa and jingling sleighs. Turkey too. Doesn’t matter the time of year: show me a string of fairy lights, a Rudolph nose, even a bag of oranges, I get a surge of excitement.

The one thing I could do without is the cold. I’m freezing my ass off in here. I think it’s still attached back there, but it went numb sometime between lunch and the second box of bananas I dropped on my foot, so who’s to say? My fingers are ice cubes, but my palms are on fire with the start of a fresh crop of blisters. The tip of my nose is stinging.

“Order up!”

I straighten. My back crackles and pops. I barely suppress a groan.

“You dying there, man?”

“Think I need mouth to mouth.” I do an exaggerated hunchback walk to the window. Rich snorts and passes me the order.

“She’s gonna need help lugging that to the station, so meet her out front, when you’re done.”

“Got it.”

The order’s for a first-timer pack: a few staples to tide someone over till we can get ‘em registered—non-perishables, stuff we’ve got plenty of. I pad it out with a selection of our less popular fresh stuff: leeks, Brussels sprouts, those things that look like carrots but taste like turnips—parsnips?—and four ears of corn tied together with string. The corn’s a hot item, but no-one should leave without something good.

I’m glad for my new scarf when I step out of the pantry. A brisk wind’s gusted in from the north, and there’s a smell of snow in the air. I can feel my cheeks redden.

The woman waiting on the front bench looks like this is the first time she’s sat down all day. Maybe all week. She’s in a position I know too well: slumped forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, like she could doze off where she sits. I check the name on the order slip.

“Miss, uh, Petrova? Elina Petrova?”

She jerks upright—maybe she was sleeping. “Oh! Yes! Lina, though; everyone calls me Lina.” She smiles, and for a second, I forget we’re strangers. She’s got one of those smiles that makes you feel like you must’ve done something awesome to deserve it. Makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole world. “Sorry! Didn’t see you there.”

“Don’t worry about it. Where you headed?”

“Brighton Beach.”

“Whoa, that’s....” I shift the bags from one hand to the other. Even for me, they’re getting heavy. “I mean, you gonna manage all this? That’s a subway and a bus, and quite a walk in between.”

“I’ll make it work.” Lina conjures up another smile, kind of a watery one this time. “It’s just, it’s kind of an emergency, and you were the only ones open this late. I, uh...really messed up.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“No, I did. I mean, I feel bad even coming here, taking away food from people who need it, after I—after I—“

I set down the bags. “Hey. Come on. That’s exactly what we’re here for. Emergencies. People in a pinch. You’re not taking anything from anyone.” I pat her arm. She feels too thin, lost in her winter coat.

“Thanks. Thanks; you’re—that’s really nice of you. It’s just, I did the shopping yesterday. But then my hands were full, so I left some of the bags under the stairs. And I got distracted, and by the time I went back....” She smacks herself in the forehead. “See? Idiot.”

“Had a student come in last week because he didn’t know he had to plug in his fridge, and everything his mom bought him went bad.” Not true, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She laughs, but it feels forced. There’s something about her, a look in her eyes, like she’s a million miles away, running down a list of worries that never ends. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror too many times.

“Just a sec,” I tell her, snatching back one of the bags. “Just realized, uh—this one’s not—grabbed the wrong—be right back!”

She holds up her hand like she’s about to tell me to wait, it doesn’t matter, but I’m already on my mission. I don’t know: maybe it’s the Christmas music still playing in my head. Maybe it’s that look in her eyes, haunted and familiar. Can’t put my finger on the reason, but I want to give her something nice to come home to.

Instead of the pantry, I go for my car. A quick rummage through the mess that is my back seat turns up what I’m looking for: a snack basket from the deli. It’s not much—a few champagne truffles; a tube of gourmet crackers; spicy smoked oysters; jars of peppers and olives and grape leaves in oil; a lot of little packs of this and that. I’d planned to gobble it over the sink like a hobo when I got home, but this is better. I scribble a little note to go with it and bury it in the bag, under a head of lettuce.

Lina’s checking out our Christmas display when I get back. I did a whole Frosty the Snowman thing in the window, complete with flurries of hand-cut snowflakes.

“Like it?”

Her real smile’s back, the sunny one. “Love it. Festive, with the snowstorm.” She’s one of those people who talks with her hands. She does a whole finger-wiggling thing, miming falling snow.

“That was my idea.”

“Creative and modest, eh?” She picks up one of the bags and starts walking. I fall into step beside her. The trek to the subway feels too quick: before I know it, I’m standing on the platform, watching the train whisk her away. Somehow, I managed to talk about myself the whole way: my questionable artistic talents, my Christmas plans, my job at the food pantry...and I never learned a thing about her.

This is why I’m single.

In my defense, she did keep asking questions.

No. This is definitely why I’m single.