A GIFT Bleary from the flight, he handed her a gift. “It’s nothing,” he said, as if saying that made it so. But, of course, it was something. Everything is something, otherwise it would be nothing. Even though that’s what he called it, his nothing came wrapped and ribboned, professionally done no doubt, since by his own admission, he was all thumbs. Standing in the kitchen, she held it like an artifact from a past she barely remembered. Slipping the slim blade of a paring knife under the ribbon and paper, she slit all the wrapping at once, revealing what was secreted inside. No longer swaddled, it slipped out. He shrugged at such wanton extravagance. “A bauble,” he said. “A trinket, really.” Perhaps, in the eyes of someone else. But she knew what it meant, this bauble, this trinket, this gift. No mere trifle, it was a declaration, a speech made without uttering a word. She knew and she couldn’t resist the urge that surged through her breast. A gift isn’t always a gift. Sometimes it’s a gamble. But the odds always favor the house. ©2025 Skip Berry
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