Bleak Midwinter

It will be my first Christmas alone. I’ve hardly left my room today. There’s nothing outside that I particularly want to do and no place I want to go. Mum says she understands why I’m not coming home, but she doesn’t, not really. I’ve tried to explain to her that I can’t afford to be sentimental. My student loan is growing at an exponential rate. And besides, I could use the two weeks of uninterrupted studying time. So I sit inside and read until my eyes hurt, hoping that understanding will trickle into my brain. So far, quantum mechanics is stubbornly resisting my efforts.

It gets dark early. Sunset is a whole two hours later than at home but somehow it seems darker here. The winter nights are dull and the cloudy sky is grey. It’s damp and dirty from light pollution. If you ask me, winter nights are not proper winter nights here. There’s no snow for the starlight to reflect off and the northern lights are hidden somewhere beyond the horizon. Even if they were visible here, there would be no way to hear their whispered singing over the noise of the traffic. Here, night is just sixteen hours of damp, smothering darkness.

This is as dark as it gets. The street is festooned with flickering lights and gaudy animated reindeer in four colours. After Christmas, everyone will agree that these decorations are tacky, but right now a disturbingly large percentage of the population thinks they’re festive and charming. I close the curtains so I don’t have to look at them, then head downstairs. My four housemates have gone home for Christmas. I pass four closed and locked doors. Strange, I never realised how quiet the corridor was without Hanna’s music peeling the paint off the walls. She invited me over to her parents’ place for Christmas, saying they weren’t the traditional Christmas-is-a-time-for-family kind of people and wouldn’t mind a guest. I declined. I can’t spend two weeks making polite conversation with her parents while she goes off to meet her old school friends and my quantum mechanics textbook stares at me dolefully from my suitcase.

My footsteps echo slightly as I walk into the kitchen. I’ve never seen it so clean. Three days ago there was a pile of dishes in the sink and a stack of pans on the stove. It was cramped and glorious and five of us were dancing around each other as we prepared our pre-Christmas dinner. It was Gabriele’s idea. She said we should make one course each. No doubt she dreamed of a sumptuous dinner with a goose, a gingerbread house and a different wine with each course. Of course, we ended up with four pasta dishes and a slightly burnt chocolate cake, courtesy of Stefan. We drank beer straight from the bottle and played Christmas songs loud enough for the neighbours to complain. There’s still a line of empty beer bottles against one of the walls.

I ate the last of the leftovers yesterday. There isn’t much in the fridge. Half a jar of olives, a packet of margarine, a cucumber that’s going soft and wrinkly. I make myself a bowl of cereal with the last of the milk. I’ll have to go shopping. The grocery store closes over Christmas but it’s open late tonight. I write a shopping list while I eat. Then I check my bank account. Double digits, and still almost a month to go before I get my next student loan payment. Luckily I’ve already paid the rent.

It’s a short walk to the grocery store but it’s raining and the wind tugs at my coat. I’m glad to step into the warmth, but the joy is short-lived. The store is packed. I nearly turn around and go back home but I tell myself I need food. It’ll be worse tomorrow. I take one of the last baskets and squeeze through a gaggle of pensioners to grab some fruit and veg. Oranges are on sale, and so is broccoli, but apples and carrots are still cheaper so I grab those instead. Bread is next. The cheap kind that never goes mouldy. I’m the only one buying it today, it seems. Everyone else is having real loaves for Christmas. Perhaps they’ll have croissants for breakfast, or fresh rolls with fancy jam containing three types of stone fruit and a berry from another continent.

The shop is a labyrinth designed to lead people past every single display and through every aisle. In the middle is the deli counter, around which Christmas chaos whirls like a hurricane. Everyone wants something fancy, whether it’s duck for dinner or French pâté for lunch. A woman is shushing a screaming toddler. A man and a woman in their forties are scanning a grocery list that’s two pages long and they’re growing frantic as they realise the shop is all out of cranberries. I ignore the enticing scents that waft over as I push through the crowds to get to the pasta aisle, which is comparatively quiet. Who eats pasta for Christmas? I grab lentils too, and tinned tomatoes. Bottom shelf. Cheap brands.

As I queue for the checkout I read the news. Hunger, disease, forest fires. Behind me, the forty-something couple without cranberries are having a row about the dessert course. The man says they could probably substitute the cranberries for something else. I don’t hear the woman’s reply. Her voice is just a hiss. I continue reading the news. It’s the hottest decade on record and glaciers are melting. The man in front of me complains that he’s been waiting forever. It’s a disgrace, apparently. I place my groceries on the conveyor belt and smile at the sixteen-year-old manning the till. She’s wearing a Santa hat and looks close to tears.

“First working Christmas?” I ask her.

She nods and tugs the corners of her mouth up. She’ll live. She’s doing better than I did after my first Christmas in retail. I had to lie down in a dark room for an hour after I got home, while I cried and listened to Pink Floyd.

“Soon be over,” I say, as I bag up my groceries. I pay almost seventeen euros and know I have to make this food last eight days.

I call mum on Christmas Eve. She’s spending it at her sister’s, and I can hear my nieces and nephews shrieking in the background over the sound of tearing wrapping paper. I talk to them all, briefly, before mum grabs the phone again. I tell her I’m spending the evening with some friends from university.

“That sounds fun,” she says. “Will you call tomorrow?”

“Sure. Merry Christmas, mum.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I toss my phone on my bed, close the curtains and head downstairs to cook. My Christmas dinner is a small bowl of spaghetti with red sauce made from tinned tomatoes, lentils and olives. I curl up on the couch to eat, with my quantum mechanics textbook propped open in front of me.