“-It’s a little bit like the edgy emo cousin,” Shannon quips, lifting his hands like he’s weighing the options, “But on the bright side, those are rarely boring.”

“Everything’s about weird relatives with you,” I laugh lightly, “You must have a colorful family.”

“That’s a way of putting it…” he says, raising his eyebrows with a shake of his head, “Muslims and Catholics so…you know - a lot of color involved there.”

“Colorful language perhaps?” I probe.

“It would make your ears burn,” he says in a confidential tone, “and all my siblings and cousins grew up in that insanity so we’re a little bit…”

“Looney?”

“That’s a nice little understatement,” he smirks, “I'm the only one of my siblings to even go to college. My sisters are all unhinged - free-spirits who couldn’t be ‘tied down’ to normal careers and Islamic standards. They had to go be indie musicians, influencers, and artists…”

“Hello, beautiful and completely ‘hinged’ artist right here,” I say playfully, cupping my hands under my chin for emphasis.

“But that’s the thing - not one of them is talented or beautiful,” he laughs.

“You just think that because they’re your sisters,” I argue.

“That’s probably true enough. Brothers are allergic to complimenting their sisters.”

“Well, that’s not always the case,” I say waving my hand, “My little brother compliments me all the time. He told me that my photoshoot was the prettiest out of all of the shoots in ‘Colored Girls Only.’”

“Well, that’s just because it was true. We’re stoics, not liars.”

I try to resist the blush, shaking my head, “The girl in the orange grove was prettier.”

“Lies!” Shannon holds his hands to the ceiling like he’s pleading, “Heaven save me from the humility of pretty girls.”

“I didn’t say I’m…not pretty,” I smile, embarrassed and not exactly sure what I’m arguing, “But she was so beautiful - and at the very least, she’s prettier than me now. I have all these scars from the stitches.”

Shannon tilts his head in that bird-like way, waiting for me to go on. 

I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, but the words seem to come of their own volition- 

And I don’t regret it.

“After the accident,” I explain, raising my shoulders against the shiver trying to seep into my chest, “I had to get stitches in a few places like my shoulders and back, and my legs. I don’t like to talk about them often, but...”

Shannon waves his hand as if brushing away the pain, “Fun fact - scars are just character.” 

He smiles warmly - eyes gentle - making me believe he believes it, ‘Who wants to look at a plain white canvas or even a plain brown one? It would be so boring.”

He rolls up his sleeve quickly to show me where a long scar runs down his muscular forearm.

“I ran into barbed wire like an idiot when I was 15,” he explains, “nobody on planet Earth but me has ever cared about this scar. I was kind of a dandy, and you wouldn’t believe how angry it made me.”

“Somehow, I just can’t see you as a dandy,” I say a little shyly as he slides his sleeve back down, “but maybe that’s just because I always see my ex-boyfriend when I imagine a ‘dandy.’ Skinny pretty boys who look like they’ve never worked a day in their lives.”

“I might have ended up that way if my mother had let me,” he laughs honestly, “My uncle owned a ranch, and my mother used to make me work there during summer vacation. It’s not too bad though. I got off my lazy butt and learned to do something useful. Plus chicks dig the big guns.”

He flexes again jokingly and I laugh, a little embarrassed, suddenly wondering if he has a girlfriend, though nothing under the sun could bring me to ask.

He turns to the printer and grabs the 20-page form the “emo cousin” magazine sent us to fill out.

“‘Melpomene Laughed’ wants to talk about that picture of the crying lion right?”

I nod as he clicks the pen, speed-reading the form with one giant hand resting on the words as if he’s forcing the paper into submission.

“There’s something so trippy about that piece,” he says flipping the paper over on the desk, but without looking up, “almost like graffiti, or accidental paint splotches came together to make the final composition.”

Now his green eyes fasten on me, and at the same instant, my phone rings. I silence it quickly.

“What inspired you to do it like that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, just whimsy, I guess.”

*

“Sorry to make you work on Christmas Eve. I guess emo never rests,” Shannon apologizes, rubbing his hands together against the cold. It must be 5 below outside of Melpomene’s headquarters, and my skin is all goose flesh. We still have to take the bus back to the subway station, then I have to take the subway back to Baltimore. And walk home. 

It’s going to be so late, but I’m just amazed at myself.

I took a bus.

But a bus isn’t a car - that was my brain-washing little lie. 

I’ll call it baby steps.

“I don’t mind,” I say cheerily, “It’s not like I was planning to go clubbing, and my people are postponing all our Christmas activities until Mrs. Moon gets home from San Diego.”

He smiles but then, quickly blows on his hands.

“You should start wearing gloves, Wreck it Ralph,” I tease, and he pulls a face at me.

“‘You should wear gloves’ she says. You don’t understand your tiny privilege. They don’t make gloves for hands my size.” 

“You don’t understand your tall privilege,” I laugh back, smacking his shoulder with the end of my scarf “At least you don’t have to worry about your feet falling asleep during the meetings. My legs always go numb from dangling off those tall chairs.”

He smirks a little at that reminder, but then the eyes soften into a gentle glow. He adds with surprising gentleness, “You did great in the interview, Alicia. At the photoshoot too. You were like a real model-”

“I’m not a model,” I say quickly, “Never will be. Never want to be. But I’m glad that everything went smoothly. It was fun - kind of a shame we only had one thing to do today. ”

“Well, it’s only 5 o’clock, we could probably find something…” He starts to say.

Like ice cream, perhaps, at some unholy hour...

The reminder stirs up something I’ve been trying to ignore.

“No, it’s fine,” I say softly, “You enjoy your Christmas Eve. I’ll see you Thursday, because ‘Emo never rests.”

He smiles with a sort of half nod that I hardly see - my mind already turning my steps towards precarious thoughts.

I should go see Kattar. 

I - We should…

Talk.

Talk it out.

But that’s too crazy…

I’ve finally gotten around to washing the laundry. Sorting through my closet I pick something, kind of cute to wear.

I think I’ll surprise him.

I set the tub running, but opt out of the bubble bath - decide, on a whim, to sprinkle some tea in the water, before sinking into the warmth up to my neck. And because Woman is a porous creature, I take on the scent of spices at a deeper level than perfume - a little bit more a creature of beauty than I’ve been for a long time.

I let myself imagine Kattar blushing when he catches a whiff of my spiced aura, and the sweetness of that feeling. But imagination is always so much prettier than reality.

Kattar is working on his computer when I arrive - working on Christmas Eve! - but so was I. Though I can’t possibly imagine what he would be working on.

I relive the same circles - again and again - hesitate on the threshold - think of running - and don’t.

Kattar looks so serious leaning over his mystery project, but when he sees me, a look of pure misery washes over his face.

I come forward anyway and sit down on the couch beside his chair. I catch the moment when he notices the scent of spices - try to hold onto the sudden change in his color and expression - as it slips through my fingers like steam, and he relapses into his heavy sadness - heavier still if that’s even possible, and darker.

“You put on perfume-?” It’s an accusation instead of a question, still, I smile painfully, hoping to pull him out of his shell.

“Maybe I’m just a spicy person…”

He doesn’t look up, a twinge of reproach overlaying the steadiness of his voice “-To work with Mr. Green Eyes-?”

“-To come see you,” I snap, peevishly, for the second time feeling the sudden, unaccountable anger. “I thought I’d make myself tolerable to the great and fabulous Prince Kattar for once in a blue moon.”

There’s a micro-movement -like a flinch or a gasp - a subtle change in his expression and his breathing, but he keeps his head turned away from me.

“You’re tolerable,” he accedes. 

But that’s so far from what I want to hear that it makes me sick. 

Still, I sit there, stewing in mute misery - and because Woman is a porous creature, I take on the stench of death in the presence of my beautiful vampire, brooding in the sparkling room with the gift-wrapped door, and the half-decorated Christmas tree staring at us from the corner like a creep.

There’s only the faintest hint of spices left in my skin on the 26th when I meet up with Shannon again - because what do I have to do with my holidays?

Apparently, he has no plans either, but he acts as if there’s no place he’d rather be - waving as I round the corner.

But between the texts and the....dreams, on Christmas, even that couldn’t cheer me up today.

I shrug into my heavy coat - cold from the inside out, as his eyes smile a greeting.

“Are you wearing perfume?” He asks brightly, the emeralds glowing.

And I just say "Sort of," because I don't have the energy to pretend.