The annual Christmas gift exchange at work had seen him, yet again, draw the name of someone he didn’t even know. What was he supposed to get for some twenty-five-year-old secretary who handed him his messages every day? He perused the shelves, trying to think like a woman in her twenties. Romance? Mystery? Bubble bath? Arthur moved over to the section with candles, trays, date books, agendas, leather-bound diaries. I need a drink! Arthur had never really liked Christmas, having always subscribed to the theory that “the holidays” were nothing more than a way for the conglomerates to fatten their pockets. He knew this for a fact since the advertising for Christmas began earlier and earlier each year, and, by the fact that those poor fools who did buy into all of the fuss seemed to get more and more vicious each year. But, Arthur was nothing if not cooperative, so he would smile, blurt the necessary greetings and be on his way, rolling his eyes and counting the days until everything would be back to normal: people walking, working and paying for all of that cheer.
