“Just make sure you have the prints by Monday and we’ll bring them with us. It would be fine either way, but I never trust the mail not to destroy my packages.”

“Same,” I sigh, raising my eyebrows in exasperated emphasis. Shannon opens the door for me as I step out into the Antarctic lobby. 

“Get home safe, okay?”

“You too,” I wave one hand as the door closes behind me.

Somehow it’s warmer on the sidewalk than it was in the office building. I imagine it has something to do with the asphalt absorbing the abnormally warm December sun - but I’m not a science person. I don’t pretend to understand how “magnification” works - or if that’s even a word.

I turn the corner toward the mall and step into the first coffee shop I see to get myself something warm to drink. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. 

Kattar’s ringer.

About time.

I slide the frozen cell from my pocket as I wait my turn in line and read the brief text.

“Are you busy?”

I think about saying yes, but that’s not entirely true. I can get coffee anywhere - and I can make my copies anytime between today and Monday.

“No. Why?”

“I was wondering if you could come over and help me decorate. My mom’s still in San Diego, but I want to have the place set up before the 25th.”

That’s right. Christmas is this Wednesday.

“Sure.”

I’d almost forgotten. Not that I was in any hurry. I already have Kattar and Mrs. Moon’s presents purchased by New Year’s Eve of the year before. 

I get my aunt’s present sometime in the summer when I’m shopping for her birthday present. 

I never buy anything for Natividad.

I go home before I go to Kattar’s place to change out of my suit and high heels.

The only clean thing left is this pink dress I bought who-knows-when. It’s designed to look like a wrap dress but fastened firmly on all sides - an assurance I definitely need.

Once in my life, I’ve endured the horror of a wrap dress coming unwrapped as I left the bathroom. Fortunately, I live alone, but that was more than enough to steer me away from real wrap dresses for good, though I still like the style. 

I still like the dress - except that it’s sleeveless. There’s a scar on my left shoulder that runs down onto my back which will be too obvious to all eyes in this dress. I’ll have to keep my coat on.

I slip it over my head and tie the belt - which, considering that it’s a dress, serves no greater purpose than defining your waist if you happen to have one. It’s just a thick sash really, made of a glossy pink fabric, and held to the outfit by an insufficient amount of gossamer thin loops sewed into the waist and standing up in tiny arcs like the legs of a daddy-long leg, but the jacket at least, will cover up those.

Kattar has the heat cranked up to 90 degrees when I arrive, and yet he’s still wearing a crocheted hoodie his mother bought him for his birthday a few years back, looking like a member of a 2000s boyband.

“Aye caramba. Are you trying to air-fry the furniture?” I grumble, taking my shoes off at the door out of habit. 

Kattar shrugs. “I’m always cold these days.”

“In this inferno?” I check his temperature with my hand. His rosiness certainly looks less healthy than normal. “You don’t have a fever.”

“It‘s my mother’s genes getting to me,” he says, almost recoiling at the touch. He smiles a little awkwardly, “I’m okay, really.”

“If you’re sure...” I step back, glancing around the living room. There’s mistletoe lying on the end table and a small Christmas tree by the sofa, glittering sparsely with a few fake candy canes near the base. “What exactly were you planning decorations-wise?”

“Just to gift-wrap the door like my mom always does and get some more ornaments on the tree. I can’t…” He trails off, looking at the floor, and decides to leave his statement incomplete. “The gift wrap and ornaments are in my closet.”

I hurry to the room. At least if I’m working there’ll be something to talk about - less awkward silence. My skin burns under the coat, but I try to ignore it.

His room still looks like something off the cover of a furniture magazine. I guess I thought it would be messier now, but the bed is made - the pillows arranged neatly against the headboard. I notice my painted peonies hanging in a white frame next to the bed. 

The strap is there too, but I try not to think about that. 

The regular office chair is gone from his desk.

The ornaments aren’t in the closet. I check the shelves and the floor, but there’s nothing but clothes, folded neatly and dangling stiffly from hangers like young soldiers awaiting orders - and an office chair set far back behind the curtain of clothing, in the dark. I step out closing the door behind me and return to the hallway. I’m not about to search the room. I’m no snoop.

Kattar is staring vacantly at the floor when I reenter the living room, his elbow resting on the armrest of the wheelchair, cheek resting on his knuckles. He looks confused as I come out empty-handed.

“They weren’t there,” I shrug.

“But I always…” he stops confused, and then rights himself in the chair with a sigh, pointing one thin finger languidly toward the door with that same rajah-like air, “The…caregivers. They might have moved it when they were vacuuming. Would you check by the desk?”

Suppressing a sigh, I go back into the room and make my way to the desk. His convertible computer lays on it, open, with a stylus by its side - but it’s fallen into ‘energy-saver’ mode.

His screen saver immediately draws my attention, though I try to look away -

I’m here to look for ornaments - and I find them, on the left side of the bed - in the corner.

I grab the box and quickly hurry out of the room, shutting the door behind me without looking back.

It’s too hot in here. 

I set the ornaments in front of him and cross my arms, then thinking better of it unzip my coat, letting some air in - though hot air is little better than nothing. He falters slightly.

“Should I do the tree or the door first?” I ask, glancing at the candy canes.

“Um…whichever you like,” he puts his right hand to his temple as if he has a headache, but he adds, more lightly than usual, at least our new ‘usual,’ with an awkward smile, “You know, you don’t have to do them both today if you don’t want to.”

“Well, better to get it done all at once,” I shrug, rolling up my sleeves. His smile falls a little bit, but he manages to say - half through a laugh.

“Is your schedule that packed?”

“You have no idea,” I start unrolling the pink wrapping paper, and pull out the little length of ribbon.

“All the way until Christmas?” 

I don’t turn around, but I know that look - his forehead knitted together, eyes rounded out in a subtle but almost childish expression.

“Christmas is less than a week away,” I reply, brushing off my dress as I turn back toward the box for tape. Kattar stares down at me, watching my motions in perfect silence, which makes me feel even more stifled - and hot. I feel the need to shatter the stillness.

“By the way, what kind of Christmas decorations are these? Pink wrapping paper screams ‘ballerina birthday party,’ not Christmas.”

“Pink is just a shade of red,” he shrugs with a half smile.

I can’t argue that. I finish wrapping the door, grateful for the welcome relief of stepping out into the cold hallway as I wrap the outside. But I’m not going to waste his electricity - his mom’s money - by letting the heat escape. There seems to be no resisting the long stream of sweat, making its way down my neck and the inside of my dress.

This is impossible.

I take the coat off and lay it over the side of the sofa.

Whatever. People would know sooner or later. 

I feel his gaze as he takes in the reality. The scars.

I’m not as pretty as I was on his screen saver, am I?

This time when I turn around, he knows I caught him staring.

“I don’t remember that dress,” he says a little breathlessly, smiling brightly, “It’s nice.”

I look at him, sour, my jaw set, and roll my eyes. His expression ebbs from one of surprise and confusion to almost worry. I catch him leaning forward in his chair as I start to turn away.

“Hey, Lise…”

I cut him off - pretending I didn’t hear him, “Have you had anything to eat, yet?”

He looks at me for a minute in silent frustration - no that’s not fair - though he tries to hide it, I can tell it’s disappointment - maybe even hurt - before leaning back in his chair in weary defeat.

“No,” he sighs, “not yet.” He waves one thin hand toward the kitchen with a delicate lift of his wrist, “The caregivers served me breakfast earlier, but I’m sick and tired of soup and casserole. I’ve been working up the strength to make myself a sandwich, but that’s going…”

He covers his face with one hand and raises his shoulders like he’s trying to shrug off the unbearable exhaustion.

“It’s the painkillers,” he explains, “They make me sluggish and…numb.”

I can almost hear the wheels churning - the voices whispering -

 But what difference does that make?

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” I say quickly, and head into the kitchen.

Kattar wheels himself into the dining room as I pull out the peanut butter and jelly. The ‘help’ has kept his pantries well stocked, though it’s questionable how much cooking he’s been able to manage from the weird angle he’s trapped at, in his chair.

I figure I’ll do the dishes too, since the cleaners won’t be back until tomorrow. 

I hand him the plate and I start to turn back toward the kitchen, but hear him laugh-

“What? You didn’t trim the crusts off! The service at this place is terrible!”

I decide to ignore him, rolling my eyes and heading back to the kitchen, but with a “Hey-” he reaches out and tries to snag me by the sash, which comes undone, and slides unceremoniously to the floor.

I turn beet-red, crouching quickly to retrieve the sash from the carpet, avoiding his face as his gaze burns into the top of my head.

“Getting into the Christmas spirit?” He laughs as I retie the sash aggressively, burning with embarrassment and frustration simultaneously.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You look like a Christmas present all tied up with a bow,” he jokes, smiling up to his eyes, glowing with enjoyment. I turn redder still.

“Is that what you wore to work with Mr. Carmichael?”

“No, it isn’t. I wore the same suit I’ve been wearing all week. I just changed out of it before I came to see you.”

I tie the bow with exaggerated force and turn back to the kitchen - anything to avoid that look of evident delight that illuminates his face.

“Good,” he says almost seriously, and I look up from the dishes as he shakes his head, “cuz I doubt that guy was good enough this year to get you for Christmas.”

“The dress HAPPENING to look like a present was entirely a coincidence,” I say firmly, “and I don’t even like Shannon, other than as a coworker.”

“Is that so,” Kattar raises one eyebrow, with a sarcastic expression, “I wouldn’t have guessed that by the way you went on about him.”

“Oh, give me a break,” I lash out, finding myself fuming all of a sudden, “you’re the one who asked what he looked like in the first place. I don’t like him, and he’s just a guy that I work with so get over yourself. Nobody’s getting me for Christmas. I don’t have the time for all that.”

Kattar stares at me in mixed anger and surprise. I’m surprised at myself.

Then he shakes his head. “15 years…” he mumbles.

“What.”

“That’s how long the metamorphosis took. You’re starting to sound like my mom.”

I shrug, defensively, bitterly.

“And what’s wrong with that? I think she’s perfect.”

“Yeah. Bet my dad would disagree.”