Crooked.
Half the branches already shedding.
It’s pathetic.
Perfect.
I hang the lights. No ornaments. No tinsel. Just white.
Simple.
Temporary.
Like everything else.
Sage watches me from the couch.
She’s been restless all week.
I can feel it.
The way she moves around the house like something’s coming. Like she’s bracing for a verdict.
She cleans things that are already clean.
Rearranges books.
Folds blankets twice.
Every now and then she opens her mouth like she’s going to say something — then doesn’t.
We’ve been living in this careful, fragile almost for months.
Almost together.
Almost healed.
Almost safe.
But “almost” doesn’t survive the holidays.
The holidays demand answers.
That night we make dinner together.
Soup. Bread. Cheap red wine.
The kind of meal that tastes better because it’s cold outside.
She hums while she stirs the pot.
Wearing my gray sweater again.
Bare feet on the wood floor.
Domestic.
Soft.
