White Christmas

He was going now, shoulder blades sweating, eyes straight into the mirror though Danny stood there just to his right.

In a life of inconsistencies, this was consistent.

Three years in a row a cocaine aided speech instead of actual, tangible gifts.

Danny ran a tube of balm over his lips and tried to get his ears to catch up to the babble.

“…and if she’s got a Pegasus or mythical creature, them winged lions or whatever, she’s probably a dyke. Don’t fall in love, like…Nicky did that once, fuck, and what I’m trying to good for your own good, happiness, fuck, say, trying to say, is that commitments…”

Danny’s father looked around. Danny knew the look. He was off the pipe and back on the powder, which Yorgo told Danny was like going from a landscape service to a manual lawnmower.

It worked, but the adjustment was a bitch.

Mick Dunham was looking for spare powder on a white bathroom counter.

“…Commitments are like… they’re like antelopes man, they… fuck… they have horns and shit and…”

Danny had stopped hoping his dad would quit, and started thinking about the day there would be no speeches in lieu of gifts. He tried to listen more, he really tried, but he’d be 18 in two weeks, and even the Army recruiter at Cauthen High had gotten him a Christmas gift. An Army football calendar that Mick Dunham had already left razor marks on.

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