We pulled our knees to our chests and huddled around the radiator in the living room. Passing around a seashell ashtray, we smoked loose joints and listened to Joni Mitchell's "Blue." We laughed until we drew tears and climbed onto the roof. The chimneys and smoke stacks put off plumes, and lovers drew their bedroom curtains across the street.
We whispered vespers to the moon and held each other with rapturous arms. On that night, when I was with you, I felt so far removed from harm. As I exhaled, a nimbus of warm breath hung in the December air and sheathed your head. We watched the neighbors hang Yuletide wreaths and put up reindeer and Nativity scenes. Then, you kissed my cheek and laid me down on your knee.
You wrapped me in cellophane and put me on the shelf. You wrapped me in blankets and made a pallet on the carpet. You dimmed the lights in the apartment. My head felt like a fishbowl—translucent and swirling with tremulous water. You lit a balsam fir candle and dragon's blood incense. Then, you climbed on top of me, and I closed my eyes.
"I wish I had a river I could skate away on."
