Secret Santa - Cisco D
[On Sunday morning first light, the truck is gone. It's not just gone. There's a small, potted tree sitting where the car was parked. It has a cheerful-looking star on top and is decorated with string-lights in the shape of peppers and some obnoxiously bright baubles in various shades of screamingly loud colors. The string-lights flash and the note perched in the branches says 'temporarily without a ride? Call [Number]'. In the wide-open time between Sunday morning and Sunday evening, the truck is worked over. There's a mechanic who pays attention to every rust-spot and who gives the tires a changeover as well. By the time it's parked back where Cisco said it ought to be, it looks as shiny and new as an old truck could. The front passenger seat has a number of parcels tied up with ribbons that look store-wrapped. One contains a lot of chocolate: milk and dark, fudge and ginger, the kind of chocolate purchased by the piece in a store where they box it carefully. One contains a pair of sinfully soft silk pyjamas in dusky dark blue. One contains a runner's watch, the kind that counts a thousand things at once and looks like something somebody who knew nothing about it pointed to an item in a catalog. And one contains - well - a phone loaded with Tinder, and a photo book meant for a coffee table but with risque-bordering-on-exposed photographs of both gentlemen and ladies. Happy holidays, Cisco. There's no note, save for the luggage tag attached to the keys.
'I almost found you a somebody for the holidays but I wasn't sure on picking out your type. Santa'. ]