Gift Receipt

My submission to the 2025 NYC midnight writing competition (500 words max) // prompts: perfume, bargaining, romantic comedy

By: Marie Pascual

Dearest Stan,

You would’ve hated this man — like trailers that spoiled endings, or people who said “data” like they were better than you.

He reminded me of you in the worst ways. Or maybe I just needed him to.

He was trying to buy perfume for his estranged daughter. Bargaining like it was the last maple syrup with “Aunt Jemima” on it — outdated, unnecessary, but somehow, to him, priceless.

I told him I was on chemo and not in the mood for a Hallmark moment.

He said, “I’ve got gout.”

I said, “I’ve got six tumours and one good wig.”

He said, “I’ve got a three-legged dog.”

I said, “I might not make it to Christmas.”

He said, “I don’t even remember what colours look like.”

“Lucky you,” I said. “You don’t have to see what I look like bald. Chartreuse would suit me now — sickly green, the colour of cat piss and indecision.”

We both laughed. Then I asked him what colour he thought regret was.

You would’ve said chartreuse. You always hated that shade.

That’s what I remember, Stan. Not the hospital, just you in the garage, naming feelings in colours.

Maybe that’s why I thought of you. Or because Earl smelled like motor oil. And denial.

Or maybe because I just missed being argued with. Missed someone who didn’t flinch when I said the worst thing.

I should’ve left then. But I didn’t.

We stayed a minute, long enough for the moment to get awkward and mean something.

He broke the silence.

“You ever think about what you’ll smell like after?”

I looked at him. “You mean… death?”

“No,” he said. “Cremation. I want mine to smell like barbecue.”

“You know,” I said, “my Stan used to make the best barbecue. Hickory and honey. Smelled almost better than that perfume you couldn’t name.”

Earl nodded. “Barbecue’ll kill your body. Daughters’ll kill your pride.”

We smiled. Not the sad kind. The other kind.

I didn’t say goodbye. Just drifted like I forgot something in aisle seven.

I didn’t owe Earl anything.

But somehow, I did.

I bought the perfume, the one he couldn’t name. Just described it, like he was waiting to be understood.

When the cashier asked if I wanted it gift-wrapped, I told her no.

Said it was for someone else’s daughter.

She nodded like she’d seen this dance before.

I was halfway out when the cashier ran after me.

“Ma’am! You forgot the gift receipt!”

She handed it to me with a look. On the back, in blue pen: In case she wants to return it. — Earl

And a phone number.

I didn’t know what to do.

Just sat there, holding the receipt like it might burn or bloom.

The colour of regret is chartreuse.

And right now, it smells like this perfume.

Cheap. Floral. Brave — in the way bad ideas are.

I haven’t called. Not yet.

But I haven’t thrown it away, either.

Would you forgive me?

Love always,

Marcy