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barf. Christmas is nothing more
than a blatant exploitation by the stores to bilk consumers into spending money
under the pretense of ‘giving.’ The only ‘spirit’ is the spirit of spending.”
    That flawless creamy skin was glowing and her eyes danced
with fire.
    “Wow.”
    “Well, it’s true.”
    “Okay, I’ll give you that much. Forget the presents and the
decorations and all the expenses. Surely you’ve enjoyed one Christmas, somewhere,
sometime. Just once? For one minute? I can’t believe they’ve all been torture.”
    “Oh yeah?” She lifted her eyebrows as if he’d just
challenged her. “Wanna bet?”
    “Another cup of this delicious hot chocolate,” he said,
trying to diffuse her. “And maybe a piece of toast.”
    “You’re on, but I’m going to make that toast for you even
though you’re going to lose.” She jumped up and headed to the kitchen. “I
wasn’t thinking. You must be starved.”
    Tom settled back in the sofa. Although she was clearly
irked, their banter was comfortable, friendly. He wasn’t leaving here without
asking for her phone number. Or maybe he’d just sneak a peek at the phone and
write it down, then call her later.
    He heard the plunge of her toaster’s lever. “We were poor
when I was growing up. It was just me and my mom. In the good years she worked
at the cannery, but there were a lot of years she didn’t and we were on
welfare. We hardly had any money for food, but she always had booze.”
    “That can make the whole year fun,” Tom said, trying not to
insult her with some sappy, mollifying comment. “Where does Christmas come in?”
    “In comparison to our neighbors, we were the poorest of the
poor. We never had a Christmas tree or a big turkey dinner. Even the neighbors
got toys and clothes, and they were always out playing with them the next day.”
The toaster popped. “Strawberry jam?”
    “Now you’re trying to seduce me.” Only after he said it did
he realize he’d just flirted. He hoped he hadn’t offended her, or worse, made
her second-guess her choice to let him stay here.
    “All women know the way to a man’s heart is through his
stomach,” she returned without missing a beat.
    Her condo, with its kitchen bar that opened up to the living
room, was warm and comfortable. Tom felt himself sinking into the love seat as
fatigue pulled at his edges.
    He shook it away. He would sleep later. Right now all he
cared about was spending time with this lovely woman and listening to the
deeply sensual resonance of her voice. A small wedge of his conscience poked at
him; here she was confessing her most painful memories and all he could think
about was how much he’d like to date her.
    She returned to the living room with a fresh cup of cocoa
and a plate heaped with fat slices of bakery toast. Jessie smiled sheepishly as
she claimed the top one for herself. “I was hungry too.”
    She plopped back onto the couch and picked up her mug.
“Every year my mother made another ridiculous claim about how next year she
would work, and we’d have presents and a nice dinner. Always next year. Then
she’d give a half-hearted effort to be festive, but she’d end up drunk, making
everything worse than if she hadn’t tried at all.”
    “What about all those organizations that try to help
underprivileged families during the holidays?”
    “Oh please, don’t try to sugar coat it,” she said in a
slightly rougher voice. “ Underprivileged . Didn’t you just hear what I
said? It’s that phony BS that I hate the most. Poor , we were dirt poor.”
    “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
    “No, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just sensitive
about people trying to soften things that shouldn’t be. If there is one thing I
won’t be with myself, it’s dishonest.”
    “I can appreciate that,” Tom said, not knowing what else to
say. Jessie’s brow creased and those full lips were down-turned. He wished
there was some magic incantation he could recite