Tessie L'Amour, M. Christian, Leanna Harrow,Andrea Trask, Nan Allen,Aria Grace
Sexy Briefs: Stocking Stuffers
When the Giving Got Good by M. Christian
"Hope you like it," Ophelia said, crossed-legged on their scratchy bulls eye rug, a wide, sweet smile on her face. She was good at a lot of things, finding a parking space on even the most insanely crowded street, making a rum cake that would make the Pope cry, giggling at cartoons, but she wasn't that good at hiding her excitement-not when the perfect spot opened up right in front of her, not when she made a rum cake that actually made her cry, not on Saturday morning just before the PowerPuff Girls, and definitely not on Christmas morning.
"Well, I hope you like mine, too" Henri said, perched on the edge of her favorite chair, a simple blue rocker, fingers knitted together in elegant contemplation. She was good at a lot of things, singing an aria from La Boheme, expounding on Aboriginal culture, debugging Windows — but even she wasn't that good at hiding excitement — not when she hit that note just right, not when she suddenly understood what the Dreamtime was really about, or when she got the damned thing to boot, and definitely not on Christmas morning.
"I know I will," Ophelia said, her tones musical, a wind chime caught in a warm, breeze wind. In photos, she was the beaming one, the bright and shinning one. Hair the color of polished gold, cut into a precious bowl, Ophelia was a sprite, a faery, a nymph: marzipan and spun sugar. Something that should be dancing on the top of the tree.
"And you know that whatever you give me will be wonderful," said Henri, her voice low and rumbling, thunder and deep ocean waves. In photos, she was the dark one, a great mahogany Budha. Hair kinked and curled, only a little blacker than her gleaming obsidian skin, Henri was strength, determination, caution and concentration. She was a mighty oak, a stately sequoia.
In the nearby kitchen, stuck to the white, pebbled metal of the fridge by a magnet disguised as sashimi, surrounded by similarly magnetic letters spelling out elegant haiku (Henri) and girlish dirty words (Ophelia) was one photograph: the sprite with thin white arms around the black Budha. Despite their differences there was a commonality about them, in spite of their different ways of doing it, smiling, and being it, happy, they were doing it obviously with each other, together.
But there was just one picture on the fridge, a photograph of the two of them. Just one. And it wasn't that old: Less than a year, no more than a few months.
“Our first Christmas together. I so excited!” Ophelia said, reaching for her clowns and balloons coffee mug for an experimental sip of still-too-hot-to-really-drink coco.
“I can tell, sweetness,” Henri said, taking a bite of run cake from the plate precariously balanced on the arm of her rocker. “And so am I.”
“I can’t wait for you to see what I got you. I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
“I’m sure I will. I just hope you like mine.”