Real

“She’s way out of my price range.” I shake my head and turn back down the aisle. Plastic and artificial will have to do for another year. The memory of my ex’s acrylic nails piercing the skin of my back last Christmas Eve makes me wince.

I hate plastic and artificial.

“No way, man,” Michael says. “The company finally recognized all your hard work and sacrifice with a Christmas bonus. Treat yourself. Get the show-stopper.”

On the opposite end of the aisle, I spot a guy, with half his face covered behind a bulky winter coat eyeing my prize. We both make a dash for it, but I, being closer and quick on my feet—those years running track in high school finally paying off—get to her first.

The woman trims the needles of the tree twice her size in height and girth. I glance down at her nametag: Marie.

“Excuse me—”

“Let me stop you right there.” She holds the shears over her shoulder as if she’s about to sling them like an ax. “I think it’s so sweet…how you let your friend encourage you to try and talk to me…”

I look past her. Homeboy is frozen in mid-stride, ready to pounce the second I’m denied.

But I won’t be denied.

“Yes,” she says, and winks. Her back to my competition, she perks up her chest, and they look real. Proportional to her body, no nipples the size of bottle caps busting through her shirt like steel; soft, squishy—at least from what I can see—not hard like melon rinds, or unusually round and firm like apples. She takes a two-inch pencil missing the eraser out of the front pocket of her apron to write down her phone number.

A check right before the holidays, and to match, maybe even a date with a hot chick whose body parts didn’t come with a price tag—this is turning out to be the best Christmas ever!

I pinch the end of a lengthy branch she’s missed cutting, rub the sap between my thumb and index finger. Sticky. No paper cuts from the fibers. Sweet satisfaction.

But what I really wanted was the tree.

© 2017 Nortina Simmons