Molly exasperated herself sometimes. The fit was perfect—snug, warm, in a stylish black leather. She had just thrown out the right-hand glove in last Thursday’s trash, had kept it for over a year because she was certain the left would turn up, but it never had—until now. She was cleaning out the drawer of the telephone table and there it was, the missing glove, hiding in the back underneath an old telephone book, the one place she’d never looked. Another hidden cost of giving up her landline.
He’d given her the gloves, her favorite pair, two years ago at Christmas, their only Christmas. Near the end of that winter, she’d lost the left one. Before the next Christmas, he’d left, forgetting to take a right-hand glove of his own. They’d argued, not for the first time, about his working late, something she was suspicious of, something she regretted ever thinking about him. She was certain now he’d been truthful, but he’d become fed up and left. She hadn’t seen him since.
Now it was she who worked late, too often seventy-hour weeks. She understood the kind of pressure he’d been under. But she came home to an empty house and two gloves, one his, the other hers. If only she’d kept its mate. She tried hard to suppress them, but tears welled in her eyes.
* * *
Mark missed her, knew he’d made a mistake in walking out. Of course she was suspicious. All of those late hours, who wouldn’t be? Why didn’t he do more to reassure her? He’d dated no other since. It was Molly who dwelt within.
He’d lost a glove himself, the right-hand one, didn’t know where it was, which drove him nuts. She’d given him the pair. For Christmas. He was always so careful about knowing where his things were. Thought he must’ve left it at some restaurant uptown at a working lunch. The only pair he had remaining were wool, with holes in the fingertips and fraying at the wrists. He needed a new pair for the bitter cold to come.
He stopped at a small shop, Tender Hands, located on a back street, where he’d gone for Molly’s pair. The same wise, kind woman who had waited on him then was still there. “Hello,” he said. She seemed to smile in recognition. “I’m looking for a new pair of men’s gloves.”
“This way, sir.” Right away he saw the match to the one he’d lost. He shook his head, couldn’t believe his luck, that they were even still in style.
“I’ll take those,” he said. “Unless”—he paused a moment—“I don’t suppose you’d sell me just one.” She smiled.
“For the right price, I might. People are funny, you know.” She reached in the display case and took out the pair. “You’d be surprised at how many lose one glove and, afterwards, ask if I will sell them just one.” She placed the pair in his hand. “I almost always do,” she said, “but as I said, for the right price.”
“Which is?”
“Two-thirds the price of the pair. Since this pair is $40"—she quickly worked the keys of a calculator—"I’ll sell you one for $26.80, plus tax.”
He thought for a moment. The glove he retained showed virtually no wear. Spending $26.80 was better than spending $40. It seemed fair enough. What was it Molly had called him? “I’ll do it,” he said. “The one for the right hand, please.” Silas Marner. Yes, that old miser, Silas Marner.
“Sir,” the woman said, “I must tell you, should you ever come back for the left glove, it will cost you the same as the one you are now purchasing. Do you understand?”
He hesitated, then nodded yes. Then his eye caught the display for ladies’ gloves. He stepped over, and there they were, a pair of gloves that matched the ones he’d given Molly. He motioned to the clerk. “Do you see something else, sir?”
“Yes, that pair of ladies’ gloves in front, the stylish, black leather ones. How much are they?”
She took the pair out and laid them on the counter. “They’re $60, sir.”
“And one would be two-thirds of that price?”
“I’m sorry, sir, these are pure—
“Italian leather. Yes, I know. I bought a pair a couple of years back.”
“And did she like them?”
“Yes, very much, but she’s lost the left one.”
“I see,” said the woman, and thought a moment. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll sell the left-hand glove for $45, plus, of course, tax. That’s three fourths of the price for the pair. Is that acceptable to you? And the same rule applies if you should come back for the other.”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, “that will do.”
* * *
A week later, on Christmas Eve, a surprise knocks on Molly's door. There stands Mark, with a small gift-wrapped box in his hand. She invites him in. A brief awkwardness as they embrace, and then he hands her the gift. As she opens it, she bursts into tears. Thinking he’s done something horribly wrong, he apologizes—“I’m sorry, Molly,” he keeps saying, “I’m sorry”—but she can only shake her head and wipe away tears. “No, No,” she keeps saying, and rushes to the front closet, retrieves her left-hand glove and his right one. When she shows them, he bursts out laughing. Then she does. Here she is with two left-hand gloves and no right. There he stands with two right and one left. Which, not unsurprisingly, clinches it.
Yes, two young lovers in a fast clinch, with mistletoe hanging above their heads. They don't notice it, of course. Why would they? When you fit together like a pair of . . . —well, who needs mistletoe?
* * *
Meanwhile, inside Tender Hands, a wise, kind woman, one who understood the value of things, stands at a display counter of gloves, and lovingly settles two unmatched gloves, one woman’s, one man’s, in a single box. She gently tears off a piece of wrapping paper showing black ink tracing a bright star and three, tiny crowned figures riding camels in a vast desert of white. The scene seems to be drawing itself. She affixes the last piece of scotch tape, and tenderly places the wrapped box in a drawer behind her. He won't mind paying again, she knows. As she leaves through the rear door, she reaches for the light switch, and turns her head one last time towards the drawer. A smile ever so slight creases her face. She switches the lights off and closes the door softly behind her. All is silent. Outside, snow feathers down, street lamps slowly form to light, and through the shop window, a soft, tender warmth glows from within.
—by Mike S.
Happy Holidays, Flickr friends. May this time of year bring you many blessings.
(for Poetography, Theme 152—Choose Your Own—Gloves; Literary Reference in Pictures; and ODT—Clothes)