We made love on Christmas morning in front of our short Christmas tree blinking in an array of colors and the angel

on top shining brightly. She was the one who nudged me awake with her head as I started to brush her long, brown hair out of my mouth. She held mistletoe over my head and began to nibble on my ear, but I pretended to ignore her. I turned over on my side with my back facing her. I tried to hide my smile and shut my eyes as she wrapped her soft, supple legs around my waist. They constricted me like snakes, growing tighter as I fought to resist laughing. Her warm hands reached down my undershirt and stroked my flat stomach. I felt her fingers going over each bump of my abs until I couldn't fight touching her smooth legs, waxed the night before. My fingertips start from her pedicured, red toe nails and slowly move up her ankles scaling every inch of flesh. I trace her tense calves and feel her toned thighs loosen as I grab her round butt and squeeze softly. Turning around, she kisses my neck with moist lips and I plant my mouth on hers as start undressing. We lie naked on our bed, trapping the warmth inside the quilt we have pulled to our chins. I playfully tug on the blanket, so she holds tight to protect herself from the draft of cold air, to hider her nakedness from God, but I want to see her everything. Vulnerable and bare, to see her goose bumps rise and then to cover her body with mine, so I can take her shame. I uncover her and she is clothed again; she is wearing a white tank top, gray shorts that I always imagine girls wearing. She sits up, faces the window of our apartment, leans on her elbows, and her face is blank as she stares out the window. I lean on my right elbow and, with my left hand, reach over to touch her stomach, and she's gone. I look outside and it's snowing. I wish that she was here, whoever she is, wherever she is. I'm alone this Christmas morning like I always am and I'm on my computer searching for "brunettes making love," but all I get is tasteless erotica. The muscular, tanned white guy who stands or sits the whole time, making the big breasted girl do all the work as they yell out obscenities and scream out manufactured orgasms. I hate it, but I can't bring myself to stop looking. I imagine that the girl I'd eventually make love to, marry, and raise children with, was somewhere out there waiting for me to whisk her off her feet to happily ever after. And I will. I just need to shed a few pounds and apply fro that copy writing job, then I'd begin my valiant search for her. I can see her now sitting her window too, watching the snow fall. I gaze out through the glass after I finish and clean myself up, then I collapse on my bed and prop myself up on my elbow to stare at the flurry turning into a blizzard. I look to my right and see her again leaning back on both hands, staring at my chubby face in disappointment. She disappears from my eyes and I scan this barren room, devoid of memories. The snow falls harder now and as the white blinds me, I try not to imagine how cold it is outside.

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