of all the christmasses dante has seen and survived, this, perhaps, will matter better than the rest, the year he watched It’s a Wonder Life without sneering or crying, ted’s face in his lap, both still laughing over the fact ted had backed into the bedroom to the tune of bing singing, his head in one red ribbon wrapped, tacky card affixed to his hard-waxed chest, best promise of a new year’s happiness, whether or not the promise can possibly last.

he sees castouts on the snowbald, whorecold street: red-eyed ingenues, feud-ruined uncle-drunks and thinner-made, festivityless leather-blacks for whom republicans pay taxes, those shell-boned refugees, dressed for sheep, each at his own indicative velocity, though dante’s just out for a little blue air while ted makes dinner autistically. the street’s aglimmer-black horn in the twilight’s velvet case, straight and weighted tight to the evening’s queer lydian ache, the antediluvian tune of cold comfort, warm harm. dante sees

the seal-haired waitress from their favorite café, singsongs the obvious greeting and she breaks like an egg on his arm.

he invites her to the feast and ted finds the poor girl charming

.