Oh Snowy Night

Her nose does the wrinkling thing again. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use the f-word.”

I hesitate and try to think of a different word. “Do you want to decorate the tree or do you want me to own you?”

Her tongue darts out again, wetting the bottom of her lip. Ah, fuck me, she wants it. I know she does, but for some reason she’s not ready so the tree it is.

“Where do you want the tree?”

“Maybe to the left of the fireplace so that we can sit by the fire and look out onto your deck.” She points to the corner.

I haul it over there and lean it against the wall. “Wait here,” I tell her. Out in the garage, I grab some rope, a few trash bags and a sack full of sand.

She eyes me with great curiosity. “Is that your dead man stuff?”

With it all spread out on the floor, I can see why she has the suspicions. “Nah. I use acid to get rid of the bodies. More effective that way. The sand’s for traction on the snow and you can never have too many ropes out here.” I arch an eyebrow toward her wrists. “They’re handy in a lot of situations.”

She tucks her hands behind her back. “I have very delicate skin.”

This time it’s me licking my lips. “I know,” I say with a smirk.

“Well,” she says and busies herself with the supplies I’ve brought. “What’s this for if not for body disposal?”

“I don’t have a Christmas tree stand, although I suspect you figured that out looking for ornaments and such so I’ll put sand in four bags and we’ll prop the tree up that way.”

“Why don’t you have ornaments? I did look everywhere–including under your bed, but you only have a shotgun there which you should have taken when you were confronting King.”

“Why?” I ask as I pour sand into the bags that she holds open. “You want me to shoot him or something?”

“No, but what if it wasn’t King but like an actual bear?”

“I don’t think he’d knock on the door.” I tie up the bags and attach them to the rope.

“He could be looking for food and sound like he was knocking.”

“This is true. Can you hold the tree up near the top? I need to wrap the rope around the base. Don’t hurt yourself,” I caution.

“I think you need a special sweater,” she says as I crawl underneath the base branches. “It would help raise your Christmas spirit.”

“Looking at you raises all my spirits just fine,” I tell her. I whip the rope around the base a few times and then pull on the makeshift supports until the tree is stable. I give the base one last tug before getting to my feet. “Let go, but slow.”

I keep a hand braced in case this doesn’t work, but thankfully it stands upright–no expensive commercial base needed.

“Can I use this?” she asks, holding up a plaid blanket tossed over the back of my couch.

“Sure.” She kneels down and places it around the base of the tree, covering up the ugly contraption. She rises, dusts off her knees and returns to my side. The tree is big enough to fill the space but not so large that it overwhelms the room. The smell of pine needles and the charred wood in the fireplace fills our lungs.

The tree looks good. Damn good, I think to myself. I wonder why I haven’t put a tree up before. A soft body snuggles up against me and gives me the answer. Because I didn’t have Faith. She lets me hold her for about two seconds before she wriggles free.

“Let’s go pop some popcorn,” she sings, tugging me toward the kitchen.

“What for?”

“For ornaments!”

Four bags of microwave popcorn later, Faith has me on the sofa threading popcorn onto a string. “You’re pretty handy with a needle,” she observes, taking another picture. I try not to scowl.

“You sure that you want to put me on the internet as proof you’re having a good time?”

“You have no idea,” she says in a strange, almost awed tone. She hops over and puts the phone screen in front of me. “Look at how awesome you look. I would be jealous of whoever posted this picture. It’s like too perfect to be true.”

I scrutinize the image. Bear’s resting next to me, his head hanging over the edge of the cushion. Smittens is curled up around the ol’ boy’s neck. As for me, I look like I’m struggling getting a popcorn kernel onto a string. It’s a truthful photo all right, but somehow she’s made it look good–homey and inviting.

“Yeah, I guess it’s nice. How’s this going to make your”—I gag on the word—”ex jealous?”

“Just me landing on my feet, I think. Exes always want you to be miserable.”