Feet First

“Pssst.”

Odd. I thought I heard whispering. Must still be dreaming.

“Psst. Hey kid, over here.”

I sit straight up in bed, rubbing my eyes as if the sleep prevents me from hearing clearly.

The bed is cold on his side. He is supposed to be sleeping on the couch. Surely my husband hasn’t snuck back in the room to apologize?

Looking around in the dark, I seee nothing but the “on” button glowing on my laptop.
Hmm…. I thought I turned that off.

I slide from under the covers and grab my robe while slipping on my houseshoes. The bedroom door is still locked. I have never locked him out of our bedroom before, and I cringe a little as I unlock it.

I hear the faint sound of his snoring coming from the living room. But just to make sure, I tiptoe down the hall and peek at him.

There he is, sleeping as sound as a kitten after one of the worst fights we’ve ever had.

“Thanks,” he sneered, “you’ve ruined my Christmas.” That was the last thing he’d said to me that night.

My bottom lip quivers a little, and I bite back the moisture forming in the corners of my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I head back to the bedroom and cozy up alone, on the warm side of the bed.

“Are you listening, kid? Why’d you leave?”

This time I hop out of bed entirely and stand in the middle of the floor, my eyes darting for the source of the voice.

“For the last time, I’m right here. Check out the glowing button.”

My new laptop, an early Christmas gift from my husband, lifts its screen up and comes on completely. An enormous smiley face emoticon looks out from the bright screen.

“I hear you, I just didn’t know you could talk to me,” I say glibly.

“What are you doing in here? I mean, it’s not even midnight yet. You’ve got time left, kid,” says the glowing face, which changes expressions as it talks. “Time to un-ruin his Christmas.”

I am shocked. I reach down and unplug the computer and press the power button hard.

“Really, you’re just not gonna listen, huh?” says the Mac face.

“I hear you, I just, how did you know?”
“I can hear, just as well as I can talk. So, what’s our plan?”
“Our plan for what?”
“Our plan to un-ruin Christmas. What you said to him, ouch, I felt it to my cores. Get it, my quad cores. Ha ha.”
“This isn’t the time to be funny. What should I do? He hates me right now.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He got you me, because he believes in you. He supports your dream. Maybe it’s your own fear holding you back.”
“But it’s too late to tell him all that now. I’ve already told him, well, you know.”
“It’s never too late. He’s still here, isn’t he? The stockings are still up, the tree is still lit. My clock reads 11:45 p.m. so you better make this the best 15 minutes of his life.”

Guilt feels so much worse than anger. I nod to the screen and walk back down the hallway. I creep past him to the kitchen, and begin preparing my apology.

I rouse my husband awake with a kiss. Holding the misteltoe above his head, I smile, hoping he smiles back.
He grunts, “What?” But he sits up a little and opens his arms.

I slide closer to him and kiss him again. He scoots over and I sit beside him, giving him a mug of hot chocolate with peppermint garnishes.

He looks quizzical as he takes a sip.

“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
“For what?”
“For believing in me, when I didn’t. For making this the merriest Christmas I’ve ever had. For loving me even when I make you angry.” I sniffle. “For not just storming out of here and leaving me alone. For…”
He kisses me. “Merry Christmas, kid.”
We sit and sip hot chocolate, curled together on the couch, as the clock strikes midnight.






- copyright SBWriter 2011