Faking Under the Mistletoe

Men have been disappointing women for centuries.
And if I’m going to throw myself in front of a train, it’s not going to be because of a man.

“Do you have very specific tastes in decorative pillows?”
“Just that you specifically don’t buy them.”
I’m sure he’ll change his mind when they’re delivered on Tuesday.

“It must be nice having a big family.”
“Nice is one word for it,” he says. “I prefer dysfunctional.”
“It’s a group of people that love you.”
“Tolerate me,” he scoffs and bites off another piece of bagel. “And most of the time they barely do that.”
“You still have a family. Whether you like them or not.”
“What are you? Some kind of orphan?”

“Are you the carbohydrate police?”
“Of course not,” I say. “I had three donuts before I got here.”
“Then why are you eating my bagel?”
“Because I’m an emotional eater and your lack of Christmas cheer is making me very sad.”

“Olivia!”
“What was I supposed to do? You were standing there pining over her!”
“I was not pining. I was telepathically trying to break her leg.”
“That’s awful.”
“She’s awful.”
“Says the emotionally inept rock.”

When I pull away, there are snowflakes on his eyelashes. I laugh and brush them off with the pad of my thumb. I wait for a response, but he’s frozen. Shocked. Maybe mesmerized? I’m a fantastic kisser. He’s definitely savoring the moment. I bet he’s going to send me a wine and cheese basket tomorrow.

I don’t have time to run to the bathroom to cry.

Later, I sneak out of bed to go downstairs. From the window, I watch fat flakes of snow blizzard down from the sky. Asher slips behind me, and I lean into the warmth of his chest as he wraps his arms around me. Together, we watch New York City fall asleep beneath a blanket of snow

“I think you’re wildly cranky and difficult and unreasonable, but underneath all those layers and layers of double-toasted-extra-cream-cheese-madness, there is a very passionate and vulnerable man that I’m going to admire for the rest of my life in spite of his terrible taste in bagels and his ridiculous coffee order.”

It’s the Nawaar Qadir photo I saw at the gallery.

Midnight in Roma.

A tear slips down my cheek.

And then another.

And another.

Asher