Miss Carol decided that this Sunday past would be the end-all, do-all Christmas weekend. Or not even the weekend. It was gonna be the be-all SUPER CAROL SUNDAY.
And it was.
Miss Carol made like 35 bread pudding thingies for her staff and a half dozen rum cakes and made brunch and pulled a splinter out of my finger and cooked dinner and we did the tree thing and hung lights and addressed cards and lit Christmas smelling candles and slathered and wrapped ourselves in Christmasness.
And then late last night while I’m slunk and spent in the Me Only Room, listening to music and trying to forget Christmas, Cutter walks in and sits down.
He cleared his throat, but I didn’t hear him. So he grabbed my shirt sleeve and yanked it back and forth to get my attention.
Coming awake, I was like, dude, what’s up?
Cutter stood and glared at me.
Why’d you drag that bush into the living room? he says.
It’s a Christmas tree, I say. It’s supposed to represent the joy of the season, pulling my sodden arm out of his mouth.
It’s a bush. It makes me wanna pee on it, he says.