The Gift of The Magic Eye

“Do you like it?” 

Her face was lit up, her eyes wide. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, betraying the indecision of which way to turn.

“It’s great,” he said, and he pulled off his hoodie and lifted the sweater from its shallow box to put on immediately. It scratched his face coming down and then got stuck. He reached around it and up, stretched the neck just enough and hurriedly shimmied into it.

It wasn’t that bad, actually, was it? He felt like maybe he couldn’t get a good look at it, the way the bright yellow on the cuffs had drawn his eyes. I mean, clearly those could not have been purple paisleys across it.

“It’s so colorful!” He said, and as he gestured to try to drum up enthusiasm, neon floaters entered his field of vision. He slammed his hands into the couch cushion on either side of him, then laughed awkwardly. 

“Sorry, I’m getting carried away! I’m just so surprised!  I didn’t even know it was our anniversary, if you could call it that.” The neon floaters were replaced by haunting ghosts of his striped-sleeved arms as he turned to her.

“Of course you could call it that! I mean we had our first date one month ago, right? So it’s our one-month anniversary! But you don’t have to worry about a present for me, just being with you is enough. I just love to give gifts, I don’t need to receive one for every one I give, I really don’t.”

Could that possibly be true? That couldn’t possibly be true.

“I’m just so glad you like it,” she went on. “I wasn’t sure, but I felt like, you know, everybody needs to step out of their box. I mean, I know I do, but I never know what will look good on me, so like, I would love for someone to just pick out something, you know?” 

She drew out love so that it sounded like her greatest desire. 

He was going to have to buy her a sweater. One that she would never have picked out for herself. This woman he’d known for one month.

And he didn’t know what she meant, actually. He wore jeans and a hoodie every day. He liked his jeans and hoodies. He had never really considered he was in a box, or that he should step out of it. What was she even talking about?

“Yeah, totally,” he said. He got up to go look in the mirror. The sweater was tight. It didn’t have that extra roomy pouchy feeling of his sweatshirts. He weirdly held his hands in front of him like an expectant mother cradling her bump. 

“It fits perfectly!” She said. “It’s so nice to see your body!”

Was it? He looked in the mirror. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the optical illusion they were facing. He tugged at the sweater, not knowing quite where it needed to grow. 

He looked down. Good lord, was that what his waistline looked like? Oof.

He looked up again. He startled a bit. He couldn’t help himself.

“What’s the matter?” She said.  “You don’t like it? I think you just have to get used to it. I mean, it’s different for you.”

Different for anyone, he thought, different for Earth. Where did she get this thing with the zigzags and the polka dots and the colors never seen in nature?

He let his eyes go slightly out of focus to try to get a read on what he might look like to an outsider, like someone passing him on the street. Nothing magical happened. He still looked like a guy who was celebrating one month playing out of his league, in exactly the gift he deserved.

It felt like it was made of dental floss woven into airline seat upholstery.

“No, it’s great,” he said. “I just got a little chill.”

“Is it not warm enough? Shoot, they had a heavier one. I should have gotten that one...On the other hand, maybe you could turn the heat up in here a little bit.”

He couldn’t breathe. What was happening? He tugged at the stomach of the sweater again, causing it to pooch out and then slowly return to base like one of those slow-rising squishies they sold at the store. 

He yanked the sweater over his head, and wiped his brow. He felt a bit ill.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “It’ll just take a little getting used to, but it’s such a great sweater. I’m so glad to have something different, I’ve been wanting to get out of my …” what did she call it? 

“Box! Thanks so much.”

He went over to the thermostat. It was 72 degrees. He punched it up a degree and hoped she wouldn’t notice the incremental move.

When he turned around, she was staring at him.  He hit the up arrow a few more times, smiled at her.

“So,” he said, “what’s next?”  

“Well, I thought we’d go out to celebrate. Get a meal, some dessert, maybe? Are you up to it?”

“Of course,” he said, as his stomach churned. He would have to put the sweater back on if they were leaving the house. There was no way around it. He stared at the thing, and his vision blurred again.  Was it a face laughing at him? Was she?

“Great!” She said. “Where to?”

“You choose!” He said, and reached for the sweater. Maybe he could spill red wine on it. Would she even notice? Would it just vanish into the psychedelic scene like so much bad judgment?

He hesitated. She was putting lipstick on in the mirror.  

He tried to bunch up the sweater into a donut and stretch the neck again. There was a ripping sound.

“Ohmygod careful!” She was on him in two steps. The neck of the sweater was lodged halfway down his forehead, and  the rest of it had come loose and hanging. He was trying to lift his arms up and around again, to grab the neck hole, but she did it for him. With a burst of electric shock, his eyesight was restored and all his sweat was absorbed.

“Okay?” She said, smiling.  

She really was lovely, here in front of him, ready to spend the evening together as if it was no big thing. She reached up and ran her fingertips across the exact spot of sweater burn on his forehead, and her touch was full of tenderness and care.

“Okay,” he said, grimacing. He was reaching under the sweater and getting his arms stuck in stunted L shapes. 

“O.Kay!” She said, and clapped her hands and marched to the door. “Ethiopian street food it is!”

He waited until she was in the hallway, then used one arm to pull the body of the sweater with all his force while he pushed the other arm through the sleeve. A loud squawk like two pool noodles rubbing together burst from his torso. Then he did the same on the other side, accompanied by the same noise,, but louder. 

He hesitated.

“Are you coming?” She sounded like she was all the way to the elevator. 

He double checked for visible tears or holes, thought he saw about 22, recognized they did seem to be moving and healing all on their own, and decided he was good to go.

He grabbed his phone and wallet. As he headed out the door, he felt emboldened. He was fine. She was fine. And so was the sweater, if you could call it that.

He should buy her some new perfume, something that smelled of that fingertip tenderness. A scent that said everything about how she could reach across the chasm between them and make him feel loved.  

He would ask his grandmother what perfume she wore. That would be perfect.