Tessie L - Sexy Briefs - Stocking Stuffers

"Hope you like it," Ophelia said, crossed-legged on their scratchy bulls eye rug, a wide, sweet smile on her face. She was good at a lot of things, finding a parking space on even the most insanely crowded street, making a rum cake that would make the Pope cry, giggling at cartoons, but she wasn't that good at hiding her excitement-not when the perfect spot opened up right in front of her, not when she made a rum cake that actually made her cry, not on Saturday morning just before the PowerPuff Girls, and definitely not on Christmas morning.

"Well, I hope you like mine, too" Henri said, perched on the edge of her favorite chair, a simple blue rocker, fingers knitted together in elegant contemplation. She was good at a lot of things, singing an aria from La Boheme, expounding on Aboriginal culture, debugging Windows — but even she wasn't that good at hiding excitement — not when she hit that note just right, not when she suddenly understood what the Dreamtime was really about, or when she got the damned thing to boot, and definitely not on Christmas morning.

"I know I will," Ophelia said, her tones musical, a wind chime caught in a warm, breeze wind. In photos, she was the beaming one, the bright and shinning one. Hair the color of polished gold, cut into a precious bowl, Ophelia was a sprite, a faery, a nymph: marzipan and spun sugar. Something that should be dancing on the top of the tree.

"And you know that whatever you give me will be wonderful," said Henri, her voice low and rumbling, thunder and deep ocean waves. In photos, she was the dark one, a great mahogany Budha. Hair kinked and curled, only a little blacker than her gleaming obsidian skin, Henri was strength, determination, caution and concentration. She was a mighty oak, a stately sequoia.

In the nearby kitchen, stuck to the white, pebbled metal of the fridge by a magnet disguised as sashimi, surrounded by similarly magnetic letters spelling out elegant haiku (Henri) and girlish dirty words (Ophelia) was one photograph: the sprite with thin white arms around the black Budha. Despite their differences there was a commonality about them, in spite of their different ways of doing it, smiling, and being it, happy, they were doing it obviously with each other, together.

But there was just one picture on the fridge, a photograph of the two of them. Just one. And it wasn't that old: Less than a year, no more than a few months.

“Our first Christmas together. I so excited!” Ophelia said, reaching for her clowns and balloons coffee mug for an experimental sip of still-too-hot-to-really-drink coco.

“I can tell, sweetness,” Henri said, taking a bite of run cake from the plate precariously balanced on the arm of her rocker. “And so am I.”

“I can’t wait for you to see what I got you. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”

“I’m sure I will. I just hope you like mine.”

“Oh, I know it’s going to be fabu,” Ophelia giggled, stretching out to grab a big box wrapped with gold and silver stars, curly ribbons, and a miniature snow-frosted tree, from in front of their cold, unworking fireplace. “’cause it’ll come from you!”

“Oh, you say that,” Henri said, taking another bike of cake and moving the plate down to her feet, “but I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You won’t, silly!” Ophelia slid her big box over to her lover’s sandaled feet, touching unpainted toes to wrapping paper. “Open! Open! Open!”

“Not yet, sweetness,” purred Henri, bending down to retrieve a small brown box from where it had been carefully hidden under her chair. “This is for you.”

“Oooooh,” cooed Ophelia accepting it with reverence, but then shook it once, good and hard, next to her tiny ears, listening for any incriminating sounds. “I can’t wait!”

Henri laughed, a base drum in the small room, the sound rolling off the walls. “It’s a little something, but I hope it shows how much I care for you.”

The sprite looked sad with joy for a moment, but the face wouldn’t hold against her animated features. When it collapsed with a wide grin she bent down, picked up the big box and presented it to Henri. “Ditto! Let’s open them together.”

“Okay, that’s be fun,” Henri’s voice was softer than usual, hushed by nerves. “I just hope you didn’t spend that much, you know we don’t have a lot of money.”

“I know, I know — but it’s Christmas, and Christmas is about giving and getting stuff. Can’t have Christmas without giving and getting, right?”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, sweetness” Now her great voice was a low squeak. She surreptitiously wiped the back of her right hand under her eyes, hoping that the other girl didn’t notice.

“Besides, silly, it didn’t cost me anything! Not that you’re not worth a lot, I mean.”

Opehlia laughed, a bit deeper, a bit more assured. “I know what you mean. That’s what I did with your gift as well. But you’re priceless.”

“Oh, silly!” Opelia continued to rattle the box, trying to decipher the contents. “I was in the Community Exchange just the other day when I saw it. Your present, I mean. It leaped right out at me, saying ‘I’m just the right thing for Henri! Take me! Take me! You know me, I can never say no to just the right thing,” she stopped rattling, scooted over to rest her head against the big woman’s thigh.

Henri stroked her blond hair. “You are a precious girl, sweetness,” she said, voice cracking yet again. She juggled her own present. “It is awfully heavy. I wonder what it could be?”

“Open! Open! Open!” chirped Ophelia, lifting her head and smiling. “I can’t wait.”

“Do yours too. Come on, we’ll open it together. Funny that you mention the Exchange, because that’s where I got yours. Mary even said that it was the perfect present for you.”

“That’s so funny, Mary said the same about yours as well. She is such a sweetheart, isn’t she?”

“One of the best things in this world, I think. Right up there with you, sweetness.” Tape popped; stretched until it broke over her finger, a bit of cardboard under the wrapping was revealed.

“Oh, you!” Ophelia giggled, while she worked the top off her box.

Paper rustled, some tore, cotton was lifted aside. During, dark eyes glanced over at blue, blue back at dark, watching each other watching each other, hoping for flashes of excitement and happiness, praying against disappointment.

Ophelia first, Henri handicapped by colorful wrapping paper. She held it up in front of her eyes: tiny, silver, and elegant, the soft music it made in their tiny room was clear and sharp. “It’s a bell!” giggled Ophelia, chiming it gently with a rose and gold colored nail. “It’s beautiful!”

“It’s for your nipple ring,” Henri said, bending down to be closer. “So you can wear it always, and so every time it rings you can remember me.”

The sprite sniffled. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said, unable to continue. “It’s really lovely. Really, it’s just that, well, I don’t have my ring anymore, Henri. I’m so sorry! I traded it for… for what I got you.”

Henri was dumb. She looked at the tiny silver chime, listened to the single clear note it still gently played between Ophelia’s fingers. “Oh, sweetness, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, it really is. I’ll keep it in my pocket. I’ll put it on a strong around my neck. It’s wonderful, so special,” she sniffled, loud and long, then looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said, not really understanding why she said it. “Now you open yours. Open it! I’m sure you’ll love it.”