Ozzy didn't twitch when I knocked over my glass. She was curled in the
armchair, picking at her stockings. I yelped. There was eggnog all over my
person. When she didn't budge, I quitted my pajamas to the laundry
basket and burrowed into the comforter. It felt great with no intermediary
clothes.

Cold air whipped through the window. Vivaldi's Four Seasons played on
the stereo. The radiator blew warm currents.

"I'm entertaining such a battery of sensations right now!" I hollered,
unable to hold back.

Vivaldi responded with a cascade of violins. Ozzy may have tilted her
head.

"This is the first snow storm," I narrated along with the music. Ozzy did
not respond.

"And this is the first walk in the snow," I said, when the violin flurries
quieted. Ozzy was looking very closely at a snag in her nylon.

"And THIS is a snowball to the temple," I concluded. The music had turned
staccato.

Ozzy looked up with an air of correction. "It is not. It is the week after
the first snow. There's a hard crust on the ground. You crack it like a creme
brulèe."

I clung to the attention. "Like the skin atop a pudding?"

"No," said Ozzy, shaking her head. "That isn't quite the same. It isn't
even close."

She deserted her stockings and began to pluck hairs from an old sweater.
I stayed prone, smelling of nutmeg, offending her sensibilities. We passed
the rest of the morning in silence.

-Cassidy

P.S. Too many emails?


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