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“Can’t. Got a date.”
    “Shall I ask about him?”
    “What’s to say? He’s new, stunning, rich, perfect.”
    I shrugged. “Just another guy, is that it?”
    She had gone into the hallway, to the back wall where the coatrack stood, and had extracted an ancient, rubbed to the nap, black velvet cape. She put it on and flipped the hood up. Little Black Riding Hood. Or the witch, to mix a fairy tale or two. “That face in there?” she said as she went to the door. “That Nick? He’s got style. My money’s on him. Go for it. “And she left.
    Twice married, twice divorced, Sasha nonetheless adored men and they reciprocated. The affairs inevitably came to sad endings, but as bright as she was, she was sexually dyslexic and didn’t learn a single thing from any of the disappointing encounters. And that was half her charm.
    I turned my attention back to the party, and found myself actually enjoying it. There were moments that were gifts when the eyes of a Philly Prep student met those of the homeless person he was serving and he stopped and looked, and honestly seemed to take note. To feel. Conversations started, questions were asked on both sides. Students forgot about clearing up and sat down to talk with guests. I wanted the photographer to verify this miracle, but he was long gone. I hoped Nick would write it down for posterity because otherwise it would be too hard to believe.
    The tree sparkled, candles twinkled, people bubbled.
    I tiptoed, afraid to break the spell with a normal tread. There was a vacant spot on the living room sofa, and I sat down to drink in the vista instead of more punch. I tried, in fact, to dispose discreetly of my cup on the end table, but it was fully occupied by a poinsettia in a red-foiled pot and an ashtray. I had to admire the planning that had so filled the tiny wooden top that nobody could possibly add anything—including water rings. Still, it left me holding the bilious red liquid.
    A middle-aged woman sat next to me, carefully, slowly, unwrapping her shiny package in a long charade of anticipation and pleasure. Her excitement was contagious.
    “I do love presents,” she murmured. “When my Thomas was alive…” Her hazel eyes looked almost bruised with fatigue.
    Carefully, she pulled the tape off the cardboard box, disengaged flaps, removed Styrofoam pellets and finally, lifted her prize out of its nest.
    And then those tired eyes stared, dumbfounded, at what I had last week declared the very worst of the gift donations, a porcelain figurine of a man in lederhosen. It had annoyed me for its stupidity—as if the homeless carry knickknack shelves around. But all the same, when the student who had solicited the donation looked hurt, I left it in the pile of gifts. I had meant to remove it later, but had forgotten.
    The woman bit her bottom lip. Her long fingers played with her unkempt hair and her eyes welled up.
    I felt responsible for her grief. Intentionally or not, I’d let the idiot thing pass. Merry Christmas—here’s some insult to add to your injury.
    “There’s been a mistake,” I said, trying to save face for both of us. “That figurine didn’t belong with—certainly wasn’t intended for—there are so many other things. Scarves, gloves. I’ll find you another—”
    “This isn’t mine?” she asked. “I wasn’t supposed to get it?”
    I was so ashamed of us.
    “I didn’t steal it.”
    “Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
    She cupped her hand over the little man’s head. “Your Santa gave it to me. Please don’t take it.” She looked as if she might crinkle up into herself.
    “But—”
    “The other gifts,” she whispered, “they’re for people who don’t have anything and never will. But this—” she pressed it to her, “this makes me know I’ll have my own place again someday. This is a real Christmas present. For a real person. I had a house, you know. Before Thomas…before my luck turned.”
    “Tell me,” I said, and for a