The Gift (flash fiction)

The mixed nuts had the cashews picked out. That's the office Christmas party, strictly low-rent. The highlight, if you can call it that, was the grab bag gift exchange, where we all had to bring a little gift, capped at ten bucks. If you ask me, we'd be better off chipping in the ten for cheese and crackers, something to spike the punch.

But, anyway. Everyone is faking delight at miniature plastic trees and packets of blank cards. I draw a box square as a dice, as a die I mean. Like a Kleenex box, about that big. It's got a shift to it; it hisses a little when shook. I rip it open: an amaryllis, a boxed bulb in a plastic pot, complete with dirt, just add water.

Not a bad gift, I think. But when I wrench open the folding handle, I find the bulb has sprouted, in the darkness, in the dirt as dry as sand. The stem is a limp white cord. The long-fingered petals are hooked and folded in a fist.

And then I know for sure I'm pregnant.