One Day in December

by Josie Silver

“Call off the search,” I say, praying it’s not going to cost more than a small mortgage and breathing out with relief when I flip the tag. I can still afford beer after all.

Call me a hater, but this writing just feels so…juvenile.

I think she probably took one look at me and concluded that, left to my own devices, I’d wrap it in tinfoil or something. I wouldn’t, but she’s not that far off and I’m bloody glad I haven’t got to wrangle with the tape myself.

This MMC is useless.

“God knows what Sarah would have ended up with without you. Petrol station flowers and a dodgy pair of knickers from a sex shop. Or something.”

Yeah, I’m not impressed by him.

“I think the wine’s gone to your head, Lu. We first met at your Christmas party.”

Oh, we get actual gaslighting? Wonderful.

The New Year is less than two hours old, but nonetheless, I kissed Jack last year, not this one. This one is a clean sheet.

Yeah, kissing your best friend’s boyfriend does not get absolved with a “New year, new me” moment.

“This is London, remember?” he grins. “You’re not in the sticks now, Laurie. You could have been naked with four legs and no one would turn a hair.”

Yeah, you can get away with a lot in a major city, but being naked is not one of them.

“Are you sure you chose the right girl?” I joke. I hate it, but there’s always a part of me wondering why—why would this gorgeous man want to be with someone like me?

Oh here we go with the “Oh, meeeeee? Reeeeeaaalllyyyyyy?”

Jack is more than an hour and a half late, and aside from a text to say he’d be here soon, just after Sarah arrived, it’s been radio silence.

He’s an ass. Yes, I know what happened after this. But he was still gonna be this late, soooo…. 🤷🏻‍♀️

bandages and tubes cover him, hooked up to all kinds of machines and drips. I’ve never been this frightened. He looks too fragile, and I find myself worrying about what happens in here if there’s a power outage. They have backup, right? Because I don’t think Jack’s keeping himself alive right now, he’s beholden to the national grid. How ridiculous. Across London people are boiling their kettles and nonchalantly charging their phones, using up precious energy when it should all be saved up and sent here to keep Jack alive.

I know we think irrationally in situations like this, but girl. It’s fine. There’s plenty of power for kettles AND hospitals.

I move in with Sarah and that cow-bag of a woman she works with?

And I’m officially calling time of death on any hopeful feelings I had towards the MMC.

I look at him, and there in front of me, on his knees, I see my next stepping-stone. Oscar Ogilvy-Black, my husband-to-be.

A husband is not a stepping-stone, but you do you I guess.

I’m sure she has a million dresses in here that would suit someone tall and curvy like Sarah, whereas my shorter, more regular-girl body needs more skillful dressing to make the best of it.

Ugh. Enough already. I’m sure your “regular-girl” body is going to find a dress juuuust fine. In fact, I’m sure most of them are made just FOR regular-girl bodies.

There’s something unique about it; it’s nothing like the Disney princess dresses most girls seem to go for.

Oh and now the MMC whips out this classic. “She’s not like the other girls.” 🥹 Give me a break.