Milk

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THE LITTLE TREE sat on a table by the window, strains of aluminum glittering and the red Christmas balls reflecting the room in concave miniature, particularly the shelf with her husband’s collection of nude figurines. Mary sat on the paisley carpet, her back against the velvet couch with the frizzy fringe, and above her head a blond Keane kid in a floppy cap, eyes like sticky buns. The baby gnawed on his new teething ring; his green holiday bib was already dark around the neck with drool. Her gift from her husband’s parents was raspberry-filled chocolates.

“Let’s see what kind of hideousness they came up with this year,” her husband said. Though Christmas was still several days away, they were opening the box from his parents in Kansas. He took a present onto his lap, shredded the Santa wrapping and passed the paper to the baby who bicycled his legs frenetically. Opening the box he lifted the tissue paper to find a Hawaiian shirt with a print of flamingoes and hibiscus flowers. Mary watched him throw down the shirt, flick his lighter and tip his head sideways toward the flame to ignite the joint. His long hair fell down in a straight line as the fire underlit the side of his face. She tried to think of something to say, but with him everything was either Good, i.e., sexy, funny, cool, or Bad, i.e., emotionally painful, boring, a hassle. You either GOT IT or you didn’t GET IT. There was no reason to discuss. The baby dropped the wrapping paper and raised his tiny eyebrows when he saw the lighter’s flame. He was a sucker for anything that glittered.

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