Christmas Eve at the mall, looking for a present for my sister, so hungover I can barely walk. You aren't all too happy about that.

Now, when I say I'm going to the mall, what I mean is JCPenny. It's the only store remaining substantial enough to offer their own credit card. Macy’s – gone. Lord and Taylor – gone. Bass Pro Shop – gone. Even the smaller places like LensCrafters and Auntie Anne’s and Claire’s have moved on.

But JCPenny still stands.

JCPenny flights on.

And I’m here, here for Penny.

Supporting, in every way.

I tell her often, I say, “I’m here for you Penny.”

I say, “I still love you Penny.”

Sometimes Penny worries she disappoints, but I always reassure her.

I say, “Don't worry Penny.

I say, “My style is best described as, I make do.”

I grab one of those cheap plastic mini shopping carts to use as a walker and hobble through the sliding glass doors. The fluorescent lights make me sick. The perfumes make me sick. The people make me sick.

“You deserve this,” you say.

You never make me sick. You make me better. And thankfully, you pity me enough to take the lead.

“How about this?” You spread open some fake wool bullshit shawl.

“Perfect,” I say, already mentally climbing back into bed for a nap before dinner at my parents. “I didn't think this was gonna be so easy.”

“What size is she?”

“I don’t know. Like a large. With a shawl, I’d say go bigger.”

You thumb through the rack. “All smalls.”

“No. Hold one up.”

You do. It's too small for you. You're much smaller than my sister.

“Maybe I could get it anyways,” I say. “And she’ll see it as a compliment, opening a sized small.”

“You think?” you say, cocking your head, pursing your lips some.

“I can be like, I don’t know women’s sizes. You know, play naïve. Be like, It looked like it would fit.”

You put the shawl back, ready to move on.

I think of my sister opening it. Watching the train of thought work through her features while I spew excuses. The moment everything clicks into place, when she figures the entire situation perfectly—JCPenny and all—as her sarcastic smile finally reaches her eyes. She’s the smartest of us all, because she’s the only one to learn to always assume the worst of everybody.

We do a lap around Penny’s then head out towards the mall proper but are reprimanded by a late middle-aged woman wearing a cartoon princess Christmas sweater and a nametag.

“You can’t bring the cart into the mall,” she says.

I groan, leaning over the handle of the cart, visibly distressed.

“We’re not stealing it,” you tell her.

The woman shakes her head, grips her chubby hand around the front of the cart.

“We parked at Penny’s. We’re coming right back.”

The woman’s face reddens, like she’s rearing for a fight. I can see she's holiday shopper-hardened, sick of being accosted by the rude and the rushed yet obligated to patronize their whims. These customers who don't want to be here, already way over their holiday budget, just pissing away money. Customers who look at her with contempt, like she’s partially to blame for being a tiny cog in the vast system vehemently vying to pry away their every fucking cent. Customers who never stop long enough to realize that she’s fucked too, that she’s working seasonal retail and probably more fucked than them.

She looks at us and I believe her disdain is well earned.

You’re one of them, the look says.

I reach out, touch your arm.

“Lets go,” I say.

Sacrifices must be made.

And as we step over the threshold to the muted halls of the mall, I think Fuck Penny’s. But then immediately I'm like, No, no, I didn’t mean it Penny. I’m sorry, Penny. I’ll be back baby.

“Fuck Penny’s,” you say.