My Ideal

There is a thin layer of snow on the ground. It is only enough to frost the tips of the grass and make things look like the ever-referenced dusting of confectioner's sugar. The air is only so chill as to relegate a scarf and gloves, the car doors still function effectively, and the windows have not yet frozen shut or shattered. We both have gotten things for the other that say, "I know you can't stop itching that spot beneath your right ear, and I just want you to know that I'm willing to help." The thermostat is turned, without concern, to 79.5 degrees Fahrenheit. He is typing hastily on his Sidekick. He will occasionally look at me with affection in his eyes and smile.

I am sitting with my legs crossed at our coffee table, painting the overgrown edges of Christmas trees on the cards we may or may not send to our friends and his relatives. We have the television set to a re-re-re-run of Project Runway because we like the designer with the hat. The house smells faintly of a strawberry and cardamom candle, one I bought with money I earned, and lit with the same fingers that have always known how to activate a child-proof lighter, since before puberty. He can hum over the sound of Heidi Klum's cold voice. He does so. The dog sometimes wanders the room as if he's looking for something, but we both know that the dog already knows where everything is. He smiles at me again and puts his Sidekick in his sleeve, getting up from the Big Boy Chair, leaning over my frustrated cards, kissing my lips with his extra-extra warm ones. I am charmed.

We write messages on the inside of the frustrated cards in our very different penmanships, filling up entire sides on some of them and only writing, "Wishing You A Merry Fucking Christmas" on others. He tells me stories about the Christmases past and I listen. We share a thin, gray blanket, even though our house is perfectly warm. The Project Runway re-re-re-run reminds us how poorly dressed we are in our own home. Light, unassuming snowflakes fall outside our window, won't stick very long on the porch or the trees. They're the kind of snowflakes that look vaguely like ash falling from the incinerators. But neither of us mentions the comparison. We will go outside eventually to take our frustrated cards, in their eggshell envelopes, to our mailbox, once the Project Runway is over and the contestant we know to be eliminated has packed up their kits. He holds my hand and tells me I am his everything.

All I want for Christmas is this.