Two Turtle Doves

“Four Calling Birds

Three French Hens

Two Turtle Doves

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree…”

The last strands of the familiar carol wafted from the stage, sticky sweet jazz notes that dripped like honey from the mouth of Atlanta’s premiere dive bar baroness. I tipped my glass in the band’s direction, quietly saluting them as the pre recorded Christmas tunes started pumping through the bar. The bass player acknowledged, and for a moment we were bearded brothers, kindred spirits under shitty lighting.

I had never seen a partridge. The thought nagged me, my anxiety riddled brain clutching at it with a fevered attempt to give direction to my wayward thoughts. What the hell was a partridge, why was it in a tree, and how was it considered a lover’s gift? Ridiculous. A pear tree on the other hand, heavy leaves and slender branches, fruit that hung low enough to pick, that seemed more like it. The waitress ‘accidently’ bumped into my shoulder as she rounded the table, “Anything else darling?” her purr was suggestive and only an idiot could have missed the raw invitation in her eyes.

“Just your number and the check.” Mama didn’t raise no idiot.

“Oh darling, I shouldn’t….” heavy lashes weighed down her brown eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched at the poor excuse.

“Consider it your one good deed for the year.” I didn’t really care if she did or didn’t, should or shouldn’t, would or wouldn’t. I raised my class to my lips, willing the last bit of room temperature beer down my throat.

“I’ll think about it.” she sauntered away from the table, her hips swinging.

Fuck me.

With a partridge, in a pear tree. The thought was amusing, probably more amusing than it should have been. Christmas nostalgia was heavy in the air, and the last thing I wanted was a quiet night at home, alone, waiting for Santa to drop his figurative load down the chimney. Christmas. It started out all sweet and ended satirical. Sweet like a beautiful pear tree heavy with fruit, satirical like a big ass bird that perched on the branches. What the hell was a partridge anyway?

I was still searching through google images when my check slid onto the table. A neat little compilation of my greatest disappointments, namely a man called Jamison. I grabbed the pen to sign and noticed the waitress had scrawled a ‘just the’ right before the line marked tip. Clever girl made me laugh. No number though. I signed my name in big swirling script, to make my mark, to make my declaration to the world. I am a man dammit, and it's Christmas dammit, and I want someone to love me enough to bring me a ridiculous pear tree with a stupid bird in it. Dammit.

She wasn’t even close to my type, curvy and judgmental with a snarky grin. Tonight, it didn’t really matter. I wanted to try again, to push her, see if I could convert the subtle flirtation into a warm body in my bed. I handed the check over the bar, smiling, “No good deed to end the Christmas season hu?”

“No good deed goes unpunished.” She countered, brown eyes twinkling.

“I mean if you’re into that sort of thing I could make it work.”

“Kiss your mama with that mouth do ya?”

“Yes ma’am and some other people’s mama’s too, haven’t had any complaints yet.”

“It's Christmas eve, what makes you think I am free for a ….” Her eyes rolled up in exaggerated brilliance, “…good deed.”

“Just a hopeful sort of guy I guess.” I tried to make my wink as extravagant as her eye roll.

“If I sleepover I’ll expect a Christmas gift.” This was clearly a pout to dissuade me.

“Santa’s busy but I can promise breakfast.”

“Deal.”

Just like that, a warm body for a cold night, a moments relief from a busy world, a partridge for my damn pear tree.