Black Diamonds
Three black diamonds set in a white-gold band in the window. They're cheaper because they are imperfect. Color hides the imperfection, it had been explained. They are on a mannequin's finger. The rest of the mannequin is no where to be seen. Probably sold off to some pervy, he thought. Some sad lonely widower. Sitting at a dinner table in a party dress, one hand less. He bites his lip peering into the black room. Snow is falling. Large paper flakes dangling on fish line that twinkles in the security light. It doesn't get that cold anymore to snow anything but paper. Hasn't for years. It rains and rains. He can see his reflection in the glass. He smells like grease and sweat from honest work. He plunges a dirty hand in a pocket and feels the crinkle of two hundred dollars, ensuring it's still there. The other pocket has a hole in it. He rubs his face and waits. Sits on a dry wood bench beneath an overhang and watches the puddles collect more rain. The merchant arrives at six. He didn't expect him that soon. "I will take the ring," he says enthusiastically, carefully pulling out the wad of money. The merchant smiles sympathetically and wraps it in shiny red paper. He ties a thin green ribbon around it. He didn't charge him for the ribbon.
The man's feet are loud in the open-air stairwell going home. The soles of his shoes are worn. He says hello to a stray cat he knows well. It doesn't reply. It's cold and gray but not cold enough, he says again. He thinks of those flakes dangling in the shop window, remembering a sled he got for Christmas when he was young. He opens the door by turning the knob hard and putting his shoulder into it all at once. It rattles and creaks. She is asleep on the bed next to the anorexic Christmas tree that sits on the side table. A clock ticks and he exhales. The lights sparkle in the tinsel that looks like silver spaghetti. He sits next to her in an old chair that serves as a closet. She doesn't cover her face when she is sleeping. He smiles looking at her. He doesn't see the scars of the disease. He never did. He takes off his shoes and waits. His toes poke through large holes and he wiggles them like a kid. He puts the red package under the tree on the skirt and waits impatiently.
She wakes up and smiles before remembering to cover her face. A cracked porcelain angel on top of the tree looks over them with arms spread. The apartment is cold, drafty. Wind howls demonically through the cracks in the window sash. She sees the gift and cries. She opens the gift and cries. After an hour of saying she will not keep it, she relents. "But this is our last Christmas. I will not live to another ... not even to New Year's. My DOD has already been approved by the board so that I can have the burial we talked about." He stops her by crawling into bed, burying himself in her skin and bone. She is warm and hollow. He is cold until she warms him with her fever. She can't help but to put the ring on a thin finger and smile. Remarkably, it fits like a glass slipper, she thinks. She'll make him take it back the day after Christmas, before her DOD, she decides. He will swear there are no refunds and she will not live to know it was January's rent. "This is our only Christmas," he says finally. "There were none before, nor are there any after."
"Do you think it will snow again?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. "It will snow. When they let it."
The man's feet are loud in the open-air stairwell going home. The soles of his shoes are worn. He says hello to a stray cat he knows well. It doesn't reply. It's cold and gray but not cold enough, he says again. He thinks of those flakes dangling in the shop window, remembering a sled he got for Christmas when he was young. He opens the door by turning the knob hard and putting his shoulder into it all at once. It rattles and creaks. She is asleep on the bed next to the anorexic Christmas tree that sits on the side table. A clock ticks and he exhales. The lights sparkle in the tinsel that looks like silver spaghetti. He sits next to her in an old chair that serves as a closet. She doesn't cover her face when she is sleeping. He smiles looking at her. He doesn't see the scars of the disease. He never did. He takes off his shoes and waits. His toes poke through large holes and he wiggles them like a kid. He puts the red package under the tree on the skirt and waits impatiently.
She wakes up and smiles before remembering to cover her face. A cracked porcelain angel on top of the tree looks over them with arms spread. The apartment is cold, drafty. Wind howls demonically through the cracks in the window sash. She sees the gift and cries. She opens the gift and cries. After an hour of saying she will not keep it, she relents. "But this is our last Christmas. I will not live to another ... not even to New Year's. My DOD has already been approved by the board so that I can have the burial we talked about." He stops her by crawling into bed, burying himself in her skin and bone. She is warm and hollow. He is cold until she warms him with her fever. She can't help but to put the ring on a thin finger and smile. Remarkably, it fits like a glass slipper, she thinks. She'll make him take it back the day after Christmas, before her DOD, she decides. He will swear there are no refunds and she will not live to know it was January's rent. "This is our only Christmas," he says finally. "There were none before, nor are there any after."
"Do you think it will snow again?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. "It will snow. When they let it."
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