Free Mitchell's Presence by D. W. Marchwell

Mitchell’s Presence
     
     
     
     
    Monday, December 10
     
    Arthur stood in front of the bookshelves of the megastore and wondered, yet again, why he was even here. The annual Christmas gift exchange at work had seen him, yet again, draw the name of someone he didn’t even know. What was he supposed to get for some twenty-five-year-old secretary who handed him his messages every day?
    He perused the shelves, trying to think like a woman in her twenties. Romance? Mystery? Bubble bath? Arthur moved over to the section with candles, trays, date books, agendas, leather-bound diaries. I need a drink!
    Arthur had never really liked Christmas, having always subscribed to the theory that “the holidays” were nothing more than a way for the conglomerates to fatten their pockets. He knew this for a fact since the advertising for Christmas began earlier and earlier each year, and, by the fact that those poor fools who did buy into all of the fuss seemed to get more and more vicious each year. But, Arthur was nothing if not cooperative, so he would smile, blurt the necessary greetings and be on his way, rolling his eyes and counting the days until everything would be back to normal: people walking, working and paying for all of that cheer.
    “You look a little lost.”
    Arthur snapped out of his sour mood and looked down at the blond man standing beside him, a big, toothy smile showing through pouty lips. “Um, I’m not sure.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “Christmas gift exchange at work.”
    “Ahh.” The blond man nodded knowingly. “Well, who did you get?”
    “Twenty-five year old secretary.” Arthur felt a sense of relief at the look in the man’s eyes. Maybe a fellow Scrooge? “Arthur.”
    “Well.” The blond man rubbed his hands together, as if it helped him to think. “Do you know anything about Arthur, what he likes, what he reads?”
    “No, sorry, my fault.” Arthur laughed, noting the blond man’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “The secretary’s name is Chelsea; I’m Arthur. I was introducing myself.”
    “Oh, sorry,” the blond man nodded and extended his hand, “Mitchell.”
    “Thank you for your help, Mitchell.” Arthur shook the offered hand, noticing how blue Mitchell’s eyes were. “I’m feeling a bit lost here.”
    “Well,” Mitchell said as he let go of Arthur’s hand, “it can be a little overwhelming, I’m sure.”
    “It just seems to get earlier and earlier every year, doesn’t it?”
    “The season or the stress?” Mitchell touched the taller man’s elbow and guided him to the other side of the display. “Or you probably meant both, right?”
    “I can handle stress,” Arthur sighed, letting Mitchell guide him, hoping he would not let go. “It’s all of the expectation that tends to get to me.”
    “Expectation?” Mitchell picked up a leather-bound diary with a paisley tapestry-type tie closure and handed it to Arthur.
    “You know,” Arthur said, turning the diary over in his hands, “be of good cheer, deck the halls, and all that.”
    Mitchell took the diary and put it back on its stand, the glass shelf once again full. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cynic?”
    “Young?” Arthur raised his eyebrows and wondered where this flirting could go. “I’ll be thirty-six in January.”
    “That’s still young.” Mitchell picked up a scented candle, sniffed it, and handed it to Arthur. “Smell this.” Mitchell sniffed it one more time before handing it over. “Lavender, relaxing.”
    Arthur sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and put the candle back where Mitchell pointed. “What about you?”
    “I like candles.” Mitchell winked, a playful smile crossing his lips. “With bubble bath and Chopin.” Mitchell laughed, right hand finding its way to Arthur’s forearm. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’m thirty, last month.”
    Arthur blushed and looked into those blue eyes. “So, is there anyone currently sharing your bubble baths?”
    “No,”