The Christmas Jumper by Owen Townend

It wasn't so late but it was late for Christmas Eve.

            He had to go. There were festive chores to finalise, a car to de-ice before trundling home.

            He rose from the sofa. She did too.

            "It was lovely seeing you," he said.

            Her green eyes gleamed in the twinkly Christmas tree lights. "You too."

            "Thanks again. For the jumper."

            A simple design: red with holly decoration at the collar, cuffs and hem and two large bells on the chest.

            He raised his hands trying not to draw attention to the length of the sleeves. She insisted that she had worked on the jumper with only three balls of wool: one red, one green and one gold. In that case they each must have been the size of her head.

            She tilted it now, struggling to keep her small, straight smile from breaking.

            "Okay," he said and moved for the door.

            As he left the living room, he felt a tugging at his sleeve. He glanced back. It wasn't her. A loose strand had caught on the door handle.

            Nevertheless she followed him all the way through the hallway.

            "Thank you," she said perhaps a little too loudly, "For the, um, the ginger candle."

            She had lit it in front of him: made a big show of it. The first two matches were duds but the last managed to ignite.

            "I hope you enjoy it," he said, turning back.

            He didn't recall the staircase behind him, it's pointed newel until he tried to get away again. It snagged his collar.

            "Oh no!" she said, stepping forward to fix it. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck.

            "It's fine!" he said, "I'm sure it'll stitch back up. I'm quite handy with a needle too, you know."

            A more natural and rather sly grin came over her face. "Oh. Yes. Mr Pin Cushion."

            His jolly expression dropped. He checked that his sleeves and collar were safe from any further snaring before hurrying to the entrance.

            "Sorry," she said.

            "That's okay." He didn't glance back.

            "I'm no good with jokes."

            "Don't worry about it." He reached for the front door latch.

            "Please."

            His finger and thumb dithered.

            He felt ridiculous. He didn't know why he was doing any of this, precisely what was compelling him to run away. She was there, stood right behind him. He could feel her breath catching, could almost see her wide wet eyes reflected in the fanlight above.

            At last he span around. Still he didn't quite manage it: a loop of green and red wool had wrapped itself around the latch. He took a moment to unhook it.

            She waited for him, hands clasped around the candle. He hadn't noticed it there between them.

            "That's a fire hazard," he said.

            They laughed. She laid the candle down and he slowly opened his arms.

            The jumper covered both of them.