“And don’t let it go to your head, but…this is kind of nice,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten with anyone.”
“Me too,” I muttered, not proud of that fact. “Do you like egg-nogg?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I’ve never had it, but I’m up to trying anything. My ability to taste is still off.”
I retrieved the carton and poured a few inches into a plastic cup then offered it to him. He sniffed it and moved it around in the cup before taking a sip.
“Oh, God, that’s absolutely rancid. I can even taste it through my cold. It tastes like sugar-laced cum.”
I laughed as I accepted the cup back from him, realizing it had been a long time since I’d genuinely enjoyed a holiday. I wouldn’t tell him, but I was glad he was here. There was something about winter and Christmas that made me lonelier than I already was. The few times I’d gone over to Danny’s mom’s house for holiday dinners was nice, but I’d always felt like an outsider, as if I were celebrating someone else's holiday.
But with Matteo, it was natural. Cozy. Right.
CHAPTER NINE
MATTEO
I stood at the window by Sean’s Buddha statue, watching the fat snowflakes falling. The street below was dusted with an inch of fluffy white stuff, the footprints of a single person cutting through the blanket, creating a sense of lonely peace.
Maybe in a parallel universe, those footprints were my own as I wandered the city, trying to understand my place in this world and wondering if anyone else was as lost as I was.
Snow on Christmas morning was both rare and beautiful and I tapped Bach’s “Prelude in C Major” on the side of my thigh, the notes floating in my mind like wayward snowflakes. The gray of the sky and the drab monotones of the buildings became a distant thing, the scene taking me back to happier times.
Nana had loved snow and though I wasn’t allowed to spend Christmas with her on the count of her whimsical ideals regarding the holiday, Christmas Eve mornings had been ours to play the classics.
Even now I could see her smile in the bright morning light, the dimples and wrinkles, the liveliness in her dark eyes. Her gray hair would be pulled back into a tight bun, as I played for her. For a brief moment, I thought I heard her voice, but it was gone as if carried away by the chilly wind back to the recess of my memories.
The flannel long sleeve Sean had gifted me last night was soft and cozy and I snuggled into it as a cold draft penetrated the window.
“It’s pretty, amirite? Even in the city. You have to appreciate it, because soon it becomes a gray slush on the streets. But that makes it all the more special,” he said, coming to stand next to me with a cup of steaming tea.
“Yeah. I used to spend Christmas Eve at my grandmother's house in Kenilworth. She has pine trees around the yard. They’re beautiful covered in snow.” I needed to stop talking because I was going to tear up and I wasn’t comfortable letting him get that close to me.
I looked at him, taking everything in from the soft smile dimpling his cheeks, to his broad shoulders covered in buffalo plaid, all the way down to his bare feet and hairy toes. The manner in which he cradled his clay teacup in his big hands imprinted on me. Remembering what he said about the snow, I thought that was a nice way to look at it. I wished I had Nana’s piano right now. I’d like to play something for him.
“This is one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had,” I blurted.
He frowned and met my eyes. “I hardly think takeout ham that you could barely taste and new underwear for a present makes it anything close to being the best.”
Returning my attention to the window, I said, “My parents never celebrated Christmas the way everyone else does. They believe Christmas is a capitalist invention, designed to distract from the truth. My family’s version of celebrating the holiday is a lengthy church service, followed by praying all day. No trees and beautiful lights, no dinner with extended family and friends, or exchange of presents. Just a reminder of how we are all terrible sinners and need to repent. So, yeah, this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
I was aware he was watching me, but I wanted to lose myself in the snow and the sound of my music. I craved to sit at Nana's grand piano and play something that reminded him of the rare beauty of snow in a big city. He didn’t say anything for a long while, his attention sliding to the window as he sipped at his tea. I supposed he didn’t know what to say.
“What is that thing you do all the time?” he asked, motioning to my hand.
“I’m playing my piano,” I said, a cough bubbling up. I returned to the couch and concentrated on controlling my cough. When I was sure I had a handle on it, I said, “It’s how I stay sane.”
He set a cup of tea in front of me, and I cradled the mug in my hands, the heat soaking deep to my bones. I let the steam caress my face, the faint scent of peppermint tickling my nose. At least I was getting my smell back. And when I sipped it, I got a hint of bitter tea leaves and sweet peppermint.
“Do Buddhists celebrate Christmas?” I inquired.
“Our version of Christmas is Vesak, celebrated in May,” he said, returning to the window. He lit some incense, little ribbons of white smoke curling around the statue. “We celebrate the birth, death, and enlightenment of Buddha. We pray in our temples, sing, and do a variety of humanitarian stuff. It’s a celebration, really. A big misconception is that Buddha is our God. He is a teacher, no greater than anyone else except that he achieved enlightenment, the single thing every Buddhist strives for.”
I drank some more tea, the warmth soothing my scratchy throat. “So, there is no heaven or hell?”
“This is hell,” he said and came to sit next to me. “We are all now living in our own version of it. In the next life, if we follow his teachings we will come slightly closer to enlightenment. We are continuously reborn and must strive to be the best we can be in this life in order to reach Nirvana, or heaven. Buddhists believe we are in control of our own lives and fates. If you are a bad person and do bad things, you are reincarnated as a worm or other lowly creature to suffer, but if you are kind and compassionate, you will come closer to enlightenment and find peace and unity with the universe.”
I rubbed at the tension in my forehead that seemed to permanently be there, absorbing his words. “I was taught Buddhism and anything other than Christianity was the work of the devil. Heck, Pilates is an intricate demon-summoning spell.”
