Christmas Morning

We made love on Christmas morning, to our short Christmas tree blinking in an array of colors and the star shining the brightest. She was the one who nudged me with her head as I brushed her long, brown hair out of my mouth. She held mistletoe over my head and began to nibble on my ear, but I pretended to ignore her, turning over on my side with my back facing her. I smiled shutting my eyes as she wrapped her soft, supple legs around my waist. They constricted me like anacondas and grew tighter as I tried to resist laughing. Her warm hands reached down my undershirt and stroked my flat stomach. I felt her fingers going over each bump of my abs and I can’t fight feeling her smooth legs that she had waxed the night before. I start from her pedicured, red painted toe nails and move slowly up her ankles with all of my fingertips scaling every inch. I trace her tense calves and feel her muscular thighs loosen as I grabbed her round butt and squeezed. I finally turned around as she started kissing my neck with her moist lips and I planted my mouth on hers as we started undressing.

We lay naked on our bed, trapping the warmth inside the blanket that we had pulled up to our chins. I playfully tugged on the blanket, so she would hold on tight to protect herself from the cold air, to hide her nakedness from God. But I wanted to see her vulnerable and bare, to see her goosebumps rise and then to cover her with my body, to wrap my limbs around her, to hide her nakedness with mine, so that I could take her shame. I uncover her and she is clothed again. She is wearing her white tank top and gray shorts that I always imagined she would be wearing. I am fully clothed again and she faces the window of our apartment and leans back on her elbows. Her face is blank as she stares out the window. I lean on my right elbow and, with my left hand, reach over to touch her flat stomach, but she’s gone. I look outside and it’s snowing.

I wish that she was here, whoever she is, wherever she is. I’m alone this Christmas morning and I’m on my computer searching for “brunettes making love,” but all I get is tasteless erotica. The muscular, tanned white guy who stands or sits the whole time, making the big breasted girl do all the work as they yell out obscenities and scream out a manufactured orgasm at the end. I hate it, but I can’t bring myself to stop looking. I imagine that the girl I would eventually make love to, be married to, raise kids with was somewhere out there waiting for me to whisk her off her feet or sweep her away to happily ever after. And I would. I just needed to lose some weight and apply for that copy writing job, then I would begin my valiant search. I imagine that she’s sitting by her window too, watching the snow fall. I look out the window after I finish and clean myself up. I lie down on my bed and prop myself up on my right elbow staring out the window at the flurry.

I turn to my right and imagine her again leaning back on both of her hands, staring at my fat face in disappointment. She disappears from my eyes and I scan my lonely room, devoid of decoration and pictures. I look outside again as the snow falls harder and try not to imagine how cold it is outside.