What should have been

Michael stared, unseeing, at the sparse living room.

It should have been a whirlwind of colour and glitter and sparkle.

There was the corner where the tree should be standing. The long couch should have been moved to the opposite wall weeks ago to make space, and the tree should have watched over a pile of meticulously wrapped gifts.

There in the passage should have been a glittering ceiling of fairy lights hung with bright green and gold baubles, leading from a hand-crafted wreath on the front door through to the lounge that should have been festooned with streamers and ribbons.

The dark, empty dining room table should have been a wonderland of candles and flowers and Christmas crackers and festive napkins.

And all of it should have been filled with the laughter of their friends.

His friends, now.

It still didn't seem real. Looking around him, Michael could almost believe it wasn't the week before Christmas, the week that for the past twelve years he and Anton had been hosting ever more elaborate dinners to delight their closest friends.

It had started in their first year in London, tucked in a tiny flat near Hampstead Heath. Their parents and siblings were scattered far around the globe, and in the dark depths of winter they'd had no choice but to create their own little family. They invited the one friend Anton had made at the University and the two old school friends Michael had reconnected with when they arrived in the city, and fumbled their way through a roast leg of lamb and a very messy trifle.

By the time they moved back to Cape Town three years later, it was a firm tradition that both of them looked forward to. For the whole year they'd toss about menu ideas, think of just the right gift for the friends they'd invite, dream up new ways to decorate the flat.

They'd done it this year, too – even after Anton got sick. They acted as if the party would go ahead normally, spoke about the weeks of decorating and planning and the days of cooking that lay ahead.

Somehow, Michael had held onto the party long after it was clear that Anton wouldn't even make it through October. He'd joked about the days of rest his husband would need to recover from all the festivities, and Anton had responded with a smile that got quieter as the weeks went by.

And then, with dreadful slowness but also suddenly all at once, Michael found himself alone in an undecorated flat just as the world about him sprouted Christmas decorations like weeds after a summer storm.

He tried his best to avoid all of it. He ordered groceries online, avoided social media to stay away from Christmas adverts, stopped listening to Spotify when it suggested playlists featuring Mariah Carey. He drowned himself in work and shut out everything else.

He managed to lose track of the days.

Until this evening when the calendar reminder for the Christmas party popped up on his phone – the event having been added and forgotten months before.

The light faded from the room as he stared at the notification on the screen. He blinked, and for the briefest moment saw the flat as it should have been – bright and colourful and joyful.

Reality snapped back, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to keep the vision of all the should-have-beens alive. By the time it faded and he opened his eyes, his cheeks were wet.

Suddenly he was letting out gasping sobs as the weight of being alone, today, crashed over him. The tradition really was over.

Michael sank slowly to the floor, where he hugged his knees to his chest and tried to ignore the dark, gaping chasm that was a future without Anton's sunny presence. The walls were closing in on him, the flat itself squeezing his chest tighter and tighter until he could barely breath. And still the sobs kept coming, welling up and tearing out of him in ragged, breathless cries.

There was a noise, something out of place.

Michael looked up through his tears, disoriented, as he tried to place it.

Someone was knocking at the door.

He grimaced, ripped from the blackness of his sorrow but in no state to deal with another passerby asking for old shoes or a loaf of bread. If he ignored them, they would leave soon enough.

He tried to calm his breathing as he waited for a silence that didn't come. Instead, the knocking grew more insistent.

"Michael?" came a soft, warm voice.

He blinked, surprised. It was Jenny – they'd been friends for the past thirty years, and even in his current state her voice was unmistakeable.

"I thought you might need some company tonight," she said through the door.

Michael rubbed his hands across his face, although he wasn't sure it did any good.

"I... I'm coming," he stammered out as he slowly stood up from the floor.

The knocking stopped and there was a moment of silence as he tried to gather himself.

He thought he was succeeding, but the moment he opened the door and saw Jenny's warm, caring smile peeking out behind a tiny, plastic Christmas tree decorated with fairy lights and baubles, the tears came flooding back.

She stepped through the door, put down the tree and engulfed him in a tight hug.

"I know it's far short of your usual décor, but at least it's something, right?" she said with a smile.

He gave a laugh through his sobs.

"I've got some good red wine too. You look like you could use a drink."

Michael nodded into her shoulder, before carefully extracting himself from her embrace and taking a step back.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I didn't expect to be... I wasn't..." 

As words failed him, he gestured at himself and the flat as though that would say everything that needed to be said.

Jenny smiled, knowingly.

"Just thank you," Michael said.

"After all the fantastic parties you invited me to, I'm only too happy to be able to do something for you. And besides, it's not really me you should be thanking."

Michael frowned, questioning.

"Anton made us swear to come tonight – he even assigned each of us something to bring. Pieter should be here any moment with the roast lamb, Carl's bringing a trifle, Lara... well, you'll see who's got what when they all arrive."

With red eyes and a sore heart, Michael smiled.