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Not only has he been shoveling my walkway after every storm, but he also hung the Christmas lights outside my window. Granted, it was a single and simple strand of lights on my tall shrub, but I appreciated the effort.
He chuckles, cradling the mug between his gnarled hands. “Maybe Santa’s elves. Or you have yourself a helpful stalker.”
Walking the streets of downtown Manhattan, near the water, in the winter, next to a fireman, and on our way to get hot chocolate. What could get more Christmas than that?
“It’s hard, isn’t it? Trying to celebrate when the people who made it special are gone.”
know, I want to say. I want to admit that I was the one working the scene that night. That I was the firefighter who pulled her parents’ bodies from the wreckage. That I held her shaking hand as I got her into the ambulance. That I went to the hospital after my shift to check on her and have watched over her ever since.
What am I doing? What is she doing? This double life, this obsession—it’s consuming me. Am I jealous? Jealous of myself?
