The nights are getting colder The blanket suffocates me, but it helps me breathe. The fire crackles and I wonder what is inside; what is burning?
A glass of wine, a cocktail dress. A hand was on my cheek.
I am alone in a world of mahogany and maple. Does the fire ever burn the wooden house?
And yet I wasn't alone, not so alone, when he put a hand on my cheek. They shouted Merry Christmas! Good tidings and cheer! We needed stories about a middle-eastern birth to vacate out of this snowy wasteland.
I pull the blanket closer. The chimney roars as the cold wind instigates it. There is one single present under the tree from the night he put a hand on my cheek. Left untouched, cold. The carols on the radio are filled with static; they are in a world far away from mine. The reception isn't clear and neither is the message. Why his hand on my cheek?
Everyone was dancing that night, wine in one hand, and a man in the other. Mistletoe on every door frame. Men kissing men, women kissing dogs. The kettle in the kitchen boiled, the whistling driving me mad until he put a hand on my cheek.
Why isn't the heat set hotter? Why don't I have more blankets? Where are my gloves? What's in the present under the tree? I see a serpent in the fire. Why his hand on my cheek?
A friend danced into the tree. A glass ornament fell, shattering. Someone finally took the kettle off the stove. Hot chocolate was served as the hostess cleaned up the glass. He left to get hot chocolate. And I still felt his hand on my cheek.
My eyes begin to burn as I stare into the boiling hearth. The present is screaming, ferociously flaring the less I look at it.It's so cold; I can't feel my fingers. Where are those damn gloves? I'm suffocating in this blanket. My hands crack open from the cold. Every noise intensifies - and then he puts a hand on my cheek.