James’ hand slipped into his pocket once more as he walked briskly through the dusk. Smiling to himself, he fingered the brown-paper package, gently poking at the bulge made by the tortoiseshell combs wrapped inside. He could already see the look of surprised delight on his beloved Della’s face. He’d had to trade his prized watch for the gift, but a love such as theirs was built upon such sacrifices. And she had such beautiful hair.

Humming a holiday tune, he mounted the steps to the flat. He could hear Della clanging in the kitchen while he jiggled the doorknob—no doubt she was already setting out a pan on which to fry their chops for dinner. A few light steps echoed across the hardwood floor, and then the door flew open. Della froze in the entryway, startled to see him.

Unable to wait, he thrust the present at her. Speechless, she opened it.

“For your hair,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, unconsciously touching her long, silken locks. “But why? John, is it? Or Jim? From synagogue? I hardly know you.”