p.s. written in blue ink | sal fisher

the one where christmas happens

You ran your hands through your hair for perhaps the hundredth time, nitpicking your appearance as you zero in on your reflection in the hand mirror. It teetered every so often from the vibrations echoing through the floor. Dad was running rampant all over the apartment, Christmas music on blast as your poor little mirror balanced atop the back of the toilet.

If they hadn't hung the bathroom mirror so high in this damn place, this setup would have been a whole lot easier to manage. Add in your broken arm and being unable to walk and you had yourself a nightmare of getting ready. Kudos to the people who lived everyday lives in wheelchairs; skilled, beautiful, amazing souls. You held them in a new light now.

"Alright," you told yourself in the baby mirror. "Lipgloss then we're done."

It was a special night and while you were a firm believer in accepting yourself on the daily and being comfortable with your features, you decided it wouldn't hurt to enhance them tonight. Ashley had mentioned doing Maple's makeup the other day for the party and had offered to do yours. You'd declined, still unsure if you were even going to get dressed up for the party. Look at you now.

"My lip gloss be cool," you murmured, coating your lips with delicate maneuvers. "My lip gloss be poppin'."

"You are literally the cringiest person I know."

You ignored your bother, reaching into your pit of makeup for the signature black tube to apply a bit more mascara. Leaning back and tilting your head at every angle in the hand mirror, you fixed the spots that needed some primping and sealed your makeup bag for the night.

You were careful not to hit the toilet as you shifted your wheelchair back, twisting towards the open door of the bathroom. The cold spot that had taken residence there a minute or two ago remained.

"Okay, what do you think?" you asked, lifting your hand up under your chin and fluttering your inked eyelashes.

Alex hummed. You felt his breeze hover around your face as if he were leaning close and inspecting every pore. You waved a hand through him when he teased you to blow your nose.

"I'll be honest," he said as you cleaned the bats from their caves, "all this reminds me of your cheerleader days."

"Don't remind me," you scoffed, rolling your eyes at the thought of that girl—the one you had finally outgrown. "At least I learned some makeup tips from them, for these," you cleared your throat in preparation for your best opera singer impression, "special occasions!"

"If I had any blood, my ears would be bursting right now."

"Maybe you'll ooze that plasma stuff like in Ghostbusters."

"Ew," he deadpanned. "Worry about your own plasma, booger nose."

Rolling your eyes, you tossed the used toilet paper into the can and navigated to the sink to wash up. You were getting a hang of one-arming the wheelchair. Only in small spaces, but it was progress.

"What time is it?"

"Dunno, probably 5:5–"

"Shit!"

"Don't interrupt me," he sassed, the image of him with a hand on his hip and the other mimicking a stop sign clear in your mind. "5:50 something, thank you very much."

"He's gonna be here any minute," you breathed, wheeling for the doorway. "Dad! Can you get my presents from my room?!"

Your dad appeared at the end of the hall, Mom's apron tied around his waist and oven mitts on both hands. Despite all his rushing around to bake something nice for the party, he appeared cheerful and, well, happy. Just happy and in his element.