She asked what I wanted for, as she called it, ExMass. I knew she wouldn’t get me anything, but her asking me that particular question was her way of denying her own faults to herself. Which was fine. A necktie, I said. She didn’t say anything. She simply smiled a downcast smile and I kept my expectations in check, having known her long enough to know to do so. (Whenever a girl asks what I want for any gift-giving reason, I always say, A necktie. Because I like the feeling of being repeatedly strangled by domesticity and love.)
I knew what she wanted for ExMass without having to ask–something (anything!) expensive, because in her mind the more money a guy spends on her, the more she is “loved” by him. She has a bunch of pricey male-authored gifts that she clings to in the name of “nostalgia and memory” but really because they remind her of the commercial value of her subjectivity: I am worth this much in white gold, Dolce & Gabanna, and Lululemon leg warmers.
She began to assemble the fake ExMass tree, and my throat began to tighten under the grip of a thousand neckties.
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