joyeux

What do you want for Christmas?

He asked her in the outline of an evening, when the contrails of planes were piercing white in the afterglow of the sunset.  She was looking up, watching them.

I wish I was on one of those planes…maybe heading to the ocean.

He looked up, watched as a blinking red light stole across the west, hurtling at over 500 mph.

If you were there then I’d be talking to myself.  And I doubt that is what I’d want for Christmas, he remarked.

She turned around, regarding him.  Her arms were folded, her eyebrows arched.  Well maybe you’d be on one of those planes as well.

The same plane?

Maybe.  But not First Class.  That’s where I’d be.  You’d be…like, in Coach.

Coach?

I’d send you drinks.  You know, from First Class.

I don’t think they allow it.

Hmmm…it isn’t looking good for you then.

He inhaled a little, she was close enough for her lotions to briefly alight upon him before being whisked away in the wind.

If you and I are on the same plane, I’m sure I’d be just fine he said.

She turned upwards again, the sharp angles of her jawline arrow-like to the sky.  The evening colors were no longer pastel but darkish, making the smearing contrails stand out even more.  He imagined as a child that she pretended she could fly, arms straight out in front of her, legs perfectly straight…probably hair perfectly aligned as well.  He half-smiled at that image.

What are you smirking at? She asked, moving towards him.

Nothing.  Not a thing.

I don’t believe you.

Fine.  I was picturing you flying.

Flying?  Like sitting up front with you in the back?

He nodded slightly…but then added I was actually imagining you going all superman-like and bouncing around up there.  Imagining you as a kid…not doing that now.  I got a glimpse of what I thought you might be like as a child…and that made me smile.

But you were smirking.

Allright, I imagined you still had perfect hair. 

Ah.  Okay.

The banter never really crept too seriously.  It wasn’t their nature.  Keep it light.  Keep it right.

In some ways she crossed him like those contrails…but as he thought more about it he realized it was likely the other way around…she was as widespread as the sky…gorgeous in a sunset, storming in a winter, gray in a funk, but never ever quite the same day to day.  And rather it was him that crisscrossed her, his disruptions temporary, his mark not permanent.  He was a contrail blown against her, that ultimately dissipated.  He hated that.

Boy you’ve suddenly gotten very serious she said, and he realized she was standing in front of him.  In the darkening mood of the evening it felt a little cooler.  He reached out and he pulled her into him, her folding neatly against him and tucked in.  He put his mouth slightly on her ear and whispered.  Her head moved up and down in a slight acknowledgement.

He looked up at the scattered stars intermingled with the few planes he could still see. 

He didn’t want to leave.

He had his gift.