"You like?" she asks.
"It's great." I fall in love with it instantly, despite knowing I'll rarely, if ever, get a chance to wear it.
"Put it on, Jimmy."
"I'm going," I say. "I'm going." And once I've disappeared to the bedroom to put it on, I find an old pair of black shoes to match. The suit doesn't have big shoulders, which is a relief. I'm excited to get back out there to show her, but when I come out, Milla's asleep again.
So I sit.
In the suit.
When she wakes up, the old lady says, "Oh, that's a nice suit, Jimmy." She even touches it to feel the fabric. "Where'd you get it from?"
I stand a moment, confused, before realizing that she's completely forgotten. I give the old lady a kiss on the cheek.
"A beautiful woman gave it to me," I say.
The old lady's marvelous.
"That's lovely," she says.
"It is," I agree.
She's right.
After we've had coffee, I call a cab and go home with her. The driver's actually Simon, the boyfriend, earning some double time on Christmas Day.
Before I take Milla inside, I ask him to wait. It's laziness, I know, but I've got the money today and can afford the trip home.
"Well, thanks again, Jimmy," Milla says, and she walks shakily to the kitchen. She's so frail, yet so beautiful. "It's been a great day," she tells me, and I can't help but agree. It has. It hits me that all along I thought I was doing this old lady a favor by spending Christmas Day with her.
Walking out again in my casual black suit, I realize it's the opposite.
I'm the privileged one, and the old lady will always be marvelous.
"Back home?" the boyfriend asks me when I return to the cab.
"Yes please."
I sit in the front seat, and the boyfriend initiates conversation. He seems intent on discussing Audrey, though I wish he wouldn't.
He says, "So you and Audrey been friends for years, huh?"
I look at the dash. "Probably more than years."
He comes at me. "Do you love her?"
I'm taken aback by the frankness of his question, especially so early in the dialogue. I come to the conclusion that he knows it's only a short drive. He wants to maximize outcomes quickly, which is fair enough. He asks again. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Now, don't start on me, Kennedy. Do you love her or not?"
"Well, what do you think?"
He rubs his chin and says nothing, so I continue.
I say, "Whether I love her isn't the question at all. Whether she loves you is what you want to know." My voice trounces him. I'm all over the poor guy. "Isn't it?"