He’s watching over me. I know so because he does it every morning, and I pretend to be asleep just that little bit longer to bask in the warmth of his gaze. It also helps that I can hear him breathing ever so gently through his nose, calm and collected as he usually is, and feel his weight through the mattress, and smell his natural, unwashed scent – honey and cinnamon.
I could spend all day like this, lounging around in bed with him by my side, snug beneath the comfort of the blankets, stretching out every aching joint as they crop up, then yawn and wrap each other in another embrace. We’d only get up to fetch ourselves breakfast, lunch and dinner, and make enough for us both to share; neither would ask what the other wanted, because we already know.
Buttermilk pancakes and maple syrup, oatmeal with strawberries and bananas. Peanut butter and jam toasted sandwiches, mixed berries and vanilla yoghurt. Sweet potato and black bean stir fry, spinach and ricotta pizza with extra mozzarella.
My stomach grumbles just thinking about it, as if I haven’t eaten in over two days, when I know for a fact that we had a nice, quiet evening last night that involved ravioli, chips, the couch and a Lord of the Rings marathon. Not exactly the kind of thing you’d do this close to one of the most important days of the year, but then again this year has been far from typical, and we’ve never been the most normal pair.
Hard to believe that’s what we are. But I know it in my heart. I feel it in my gut. I’m holding it in my hand. And he, the tender soul that he is, gives my hand a delicate squeeze, as if anything stronger might cast me to the wind.
That’s my cue to wave the charade away. It wasn’t fooling anyone, but it’s a pleasant thought – to know you’re being watched over. So, slowly easing my eyes open to nothing larger than a crack, I peer through the gloom of the bedroom, the dull, languid light that wafts through the curtains, the haze of my own vision, and spy his silhouette across from me.
Rings the colour of tropical lagoons stare back, and oh, if only I could swim in them for hours on end. Besides everything else about him, they were the first of his features I noticed. Not saw, but really, truly noticed – stayed with me day and night, until the dream became reality. I never imagined it would come as far as this, though, not that I’m complaining.
The smile he wears is subtle, little more than a faint upward curl in both corners of his mouth, yet endearing all the same. I wouldn’t say that he’s a soft-spoken individual, but I will say that sometimes the smallest actions carry the most meaning, and all of them speak louder than words.
“Morning, beautiful,” I sleepily whisper, partly because anything louder would be too much effort, but mostly because I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. Who’d want to kiss or even lay close to someone with stinky breath?
His only reply is a quiet, content hum. Perhaps you’d call him a man of few words, and perhaps you’d be technically correct, but all you’d get out of him is an amused grin. I can’t help but adore him for that, and believe me when I say that I’ve tried not to. Friends were confused, family were baffled, and the public at large would rather nobody talk about such things, yet happen they do.
But that’s not something I want to think about right now, or even need to – it’s all in the past for the most part. Life is good here, in our cosy little bedroom at the break of dawn, the scent of carpet and bed sheets lingering in the motionless air, both due for a wash. We’ll sort that out later, maybe when we’re done with being lazy for the day.
I cover my mouth as I yawn, then close my eyes again to stretch my arms and crack my neck, though I turn away during it to keep him from catching too strong a whiff. A quick glance at the digital clock informs me that we can allow ourselves another five minutes, and another twenty-five on top of that if we’re feeling extra rebellious, like little kids in a pillow fort.
Returning to him, it’s as if he hasn’t blinked, too lost in thought to bother. That’s yet another thing about him, always such the romantic, as far back as the very first moment we met on the plane to Los Angeles. Twenty-five hours is a lot of time to chat.
And this is what it led to.
Serenity.
“What’s got you up so early?”
There’s a beat, and then a languid, carefree shrug. And still he smiles like a schoolkid admiring his crush from the back of the classroom, wondering when she might finally catch him in the act. It’s a pleasant little fantasy, and no matter how many times I wake up to this, it’s always heartwarming.
And that reminds me of something – something he mentioned once, about a holiday he never got to experience. A holiday we have over here, that goes by a different name.
“It’s the big day,” I say, sidling just a bit closer without disturbing the peace, tucking his forelimb under my arm in a loose hug. Bowing forward and burying my face into his chest, I’m welcomed by the embrace of his silken locks against my brows and cheeks. The smell alone nearly puts me back to sleep. “Merry Christmas, honey bun.”
His hold on me grows a tad stronger as he lays his chin over my head, but it’s only for a precious moment – or at least it feels that way – and he gently taps my shoulder for my attention. It’s hard to think of a time when he’s anything but lovey-dovey.
I release him and wiggle back a little way , looking up once more into those enchanting eyes of his, and how they stand out from his coat, mane and scales. Alien and yet captivating. Small wonder why I noticed them first.
After a brief pause to soak in the atmosphere, to keep it sweet for as long as possible, he reaches down without looking away and quietly guides my hand up with his cloven hoof. He shimmies into me and wriggles onto his back so that I’m effectively spooning him from the side, his body against mine, nose to nose. And with a soft kiss on the lips that fills me with even more warmth, he spells out a message on my palm with the other hoof.
You are the only gift I need.
They say that love is blind. I beg to differ. Love is actually mute. And I’m not just saying that because of him; of course love cares about appearances, or else I wouldn’t find him so adorably handsome. Nor would I have put so much effort into prettying myself up for every other date I’ve had in the past. Fretting over how we look is only natural.
No, what love really lacks is a voice, so it speaks to us through different means – methods we can’t always describe, but feel deep within us, in our heart, bones and very soul. And when you know, you know. There’s no use fighting it. And why would you want to?
I was hesitant at first, I’ll admit. Who wouldn’t be? You always hear jokes about this and that and what sapient species from which video game or fantasy universe is the most attractive, but how many of us would actually take that leap of faith? Who’d want to be the odd ones out?
I sigh and refocus on the stove before me. The scent of pancake batter fills the air as the two uneven disks slowly bubble and solidify. I’ve had enough experience making these that I don’t need a timer anymore, which was crucial when I was just learning how to be an adult.
“We’ll need to be making ourselves some actual breakfast sometime,” I muse aloud, retrieving the plastic spatula from beside the stove and flipping one of the pancakes over. “Too much more of this and we’ll start packing on the pounds, not that quarantine has helped.”
The living room is just behind me, past the island counter where the floor goes from linoleum to thin, worn carpet. This place may be big enough for two – certainly three if a guest arrived – but it’s starting to show its age. That’s how I got it so cheap, though I’m surprised no one hasn’t tried renovating it. I would, but I don’t have the money to spare.
Well, we don’t, I suppose. And yet for the time being we’ll pretend to live like kings.
If he hasn’t replied, though, he isn’t complaining. Either that or he’s too engrossed with the television.
I peer over my shoulder to see him sitting on the sofa like a dog. It’s cute, though if he were any less sapient I’d probably consider setting some boundaries. We do have a strict wipe-your-hooves-on-the-doormat-thoroughly policy, after all, since I’m the only one who wears shoes in the relationship. “Has anything like Covid ever happened in your world, Pumpkin?”
His ear twitches in my direction, followed by his attention as he tears it away from the display; adverts for now. He merely shakes his head.
“So this’ll be a first for you in more ways than one.” Humming to myself, amused, I return to the frying pan and flip the other pancake. Both are upside down now, and almost perfectly golden. Just a little longer and everything will be ready. “I’d say it’s a shame that you chose this year to cross over, but then, well…”
I don’t need to finish that. He understands well enough, I’m sure. On a planet of seven and a half billion people, the chance of stumbling into the same human twice is pretty slim. I don’t believe in soulmates exactly – with enough time and the right situation, almost anyone can fall in love – but I know how difficult it is to find that special connection you’d never want to let go.
He doesn’t say it, but I know he feels the same too.
“You want banana slices?”
Something appears to have caught his attention on the screen, so instead of meeting my gaze, he leans forward for the coffee table and raps his hoof twice on the varnished surface.
“Alright then,” I mumble with a sigh, flipping the pancakes again so see that they’d cooked evenly on both sides. “But believe me, you’re missing out.”
Another two knocks.
“So you say.” Smirking as I switch off the gas, I then pick the frying pan up and take it over to the plates on the island counter. Both already have two pancakes already on them, and there’s half a bottle of mix left in case we want extras. “You’re a fussy eater, you know that? It’s like cooking for royalty sometimes, I swear.”
Four knocks. Figures. Whatever witty response I’m in for, he’d better keep it short – just because I’m familiar with Equestrian Sign Language doesn’t make me fluent, worse when he’s the only teacher I have.
Scraping the pancakes onto their individual stacks gets me worried that one seems larger than the other. It’s a marginal difference, granted, but Mom knew a trick that ensured fairness, and it has stuck with me for as long as I can remember, although it means forgoing the banana on my part.
“The things I do for love,” I mutter under my breath as I take the plates through to the living room. Pumpkin is still fixated on the television, and only seems to notice my approach when I hold out both of the stacks in front of him so he can catch a good whiff. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me as his tree root-like horn ignites and swathes his chosen serving in an aura of magic.
“Nothing, never mind.” Waving a hand dismissively, I flop onto the couch beside him and kick my feet up onto the coffee table. Dad always said not to do that – disrespects the furniture and shows bad manners – but if every man’s home is his castle, then I get to make the laws. And if Pumpkin isn’t complaining, I see no reason why there should be any changes. “So, what was it you wanted to say, hon?”
Once more, he presents the flat of his hoof to signal for me to give him my hand. I oblige, and he replies.
You say I am royalty.
“Well, yeah.” I scoff and smirk. “I mean, I know you can’t help being vegetarian, but it’s like I’m living with a vegan sometimes. No bananas, no nuts, no eggs, no pepper, no… whatever. The whole point of food is variety, and when you reject so much of it just because you—”
He puts a hoof to my mouth and shuts me up with a soft yet entirely unamused scowl, then relaxes and continues when he’s sure I won’t ruin the mood any further.
If I am royalty, you are my princess.
I meet his gaze, my chest suddenly quite light. Nobody in their right mind wants to be the girl who swoons with every compliment, but I won’t deny that there’s a certain… appeal to this – being reminded every day that they’re more than just pretty words.
Even so, I manage to convince myself to roll my eyes. “You never get tired of those pick-up lines, do you? They’re all just too deeply rooted in your psyche.”
Brevity is the soul of wit.
“It’s not witty, Pumpkin, it’s cheap.”
He baulks, recoiling from me with wide eyes, rising brows and a hoof aimed at himself through the thick, silken locks of his voluminous mane. I know he’s playing it up for laughs, but I could buy into it, him being so completely unaware of his own cheesiness. Nevertheless, he shakes his head emphatically.
I am not cheap. You are priceless.
There’s no end to them, like a perpetual waterfall of bad puns, and it irks me how I can never seem to stay mad with him. But maybe that’s a good thing – a sign that we’re more in tune with each other than we give ourselves credit for. Why would I have hung around him for so long, and he around me, if we didn’t mesh well together in the first place?
“You’re impossible.”
Name your price, then.
I cock an eyebrow. “My price?”
For your affection. How much does your love cost? Clearly I have not paid for it.
Staring at him for a moment, I settle down from confusion into cautious recognition; he isn’t joking. Not totally. He’s smiling and practically laughing about the whole thing, but there’s an unmistakably earnest undertone beneath it all. I wouldn’t say that it’s uncharacteristic, but it’s definitely unexpected – I hadn’t thought that he felt this way, or at least not this strongly.
“Are you saying… you want to prove yourself?” I gingerly enquire, and almost burst out cackling like a witch at how ridiculous it sounds. “What, like a chivalrous knight in shining armour? Why?”
He shrugs.
I continue to stare in bemusement, then squint and angle my head suspiciously. “How? You gonna slay a dragon or something? Defend my honour from a group of would-be thugs?”
He shakes his head again, and doesn’t let up the cool, contented grin spread across his muzzle. But rather than explain himself right away, he levitates his pancake stack closer, tears off a chunk with his magic, and pops it into his mouth while looking me in the eye. Table manners are different in Equestria, it seems – one of the only differences, aside from the talking ponies, magic and assorted mythical creatures.
That would not be in the spirit of the season.
“Then what would you propose instead?”
He smirks knowingly and looks to the television, which is still running advertisements on a panoply of products, urging us to contact this number now to get a second item free. And that’s when the bottom of my stomach drops to the floor: he isn’t waiting for the news to come back on, he’s watching infomercials.
“Pumpkin Smoke,” I intone, peering at him from the corner of my eye, “you will abandon that train of thought right this second, or I swear I’ll…”
He swings back to me, head drooping and ears floppy, brows upturned and sticking out his lower lip, and as much as I want to slap him for it, the puppy-dog face he’s giving me tugs on a tender nerve. I wouldn’t call it a secret weapon, but it frustrates me in how I never seem to see it coming, just like all of his one-liners.
“No.” I hold up my index finger between us and shake my head. “No. We’ve been over this. No gifts.”
His tail curls around his flank, and he leans down to grab it in both forehooves and clasp it to his chest. The devious little bugger knows exactly how cute he is, and how to make himself even more adorable.
“I’m not doing this.” I stand up and take my plate full of untouched and quickly cooling pancakes with me. “You can beg, you can plead, you can do everything in your power to try and convince me, but I ain’t gonna budge. No presents. It’s not like it’d get here before the end of the day anyway, and you’re not using my credit card.”
He flops onto his side and rolls onto his back, exposing his belly, practically defying me to resist.
Although it isn’t my usual style to get violent, I’d punch him in the gut if he were human, because this right here is just downright cruel. How could either of us call this an equal relationship when he gets to strongarm me into whatever he wants? But thankfully, I’m determined enough to persevere, and shift my weight to the right as I put a hand on my hip and repose the question. “Alright then, I’ll bite. How do you plan to order something over the phone when you can’t speak?”
Finally, a flicker of hesitation, but it only lasts for a couple of seconds before he rolls onto his stomach once more and sits up straight, patting the cushion beneath him to communicate in Horse code.
Jessie.
My jaw drops – not exactly shocked, but far from impressed. “Jessie is twelve, hon. I’m no lawyer, but I think you need to be at least eighteen to make a purchase like this.”
His father.
“I don’t think Nick likes me very much, and I know for a fact he barely understands you.”
Jessie does.
I gawk at him for what feels like an entire minute as I process the arrangement step-by-step, then languidly pace around in a loose circle as I rub my temples. “You do realise we’re in lockdown for the next few days, right?”
He nods, unaffected.
“Which means we’d have to call them.”
A slightly longer beat before another nod.
“In other words,” I conclude, coming to a halt and turning to face him, feeling somewhat detached from the whole situation, “you want me to call the neighbour’s kid to tell his dad to buy something for you that you can give to me.”
This time, the pause stretches on for so long that I almost begin to think that he’s seeing how absurd it sounds. But with a third nod and a blissfully ignorant smile, those hopes are dashed.
“Nope.” Throwing my free hand up into the air and whirling about for the hallway, I march for the bedroom. “I’m done. You’re the worst. I’ll be on the laptop playing Minecraft. See ya.”
It didn’t take long for the barriers to break down. He knocked on the door, I let him in, he hugged me and told me the pancakes were delicious, and that was that. No emotional outburst, no big display of affection, just a simple kiss and a compliment.
Like I said, I can’t stay mad at him. And on a similar note, I can’t stay in my pyjamas all day, or else I’ll start getting clammy in all the wrong places, and there’s nothing worse than wanting to cuddle with someone who stinks. That’s where the shower comes in, and I don’t normally head there without selecting a change of clothes first.
So, here I am, sifting through the wardrobe for a shirt, underwear and a pair of jeans. Most of what I have are more than a couple of years old, and quite a few I’ve had lying around since I moved out of my parents’ house. Frugality is the law around here, even if it means I won’t get to look my best. Not that there’s anyone to look good for with Corona on the loose, and not that Pumpkin isn’t already head over heels for me.
I drift off in thought and smile, caught on the memory of waking up this morning. He’s the only one I can recall doing that, and he never appears to grow tired of it. Keepers are few and far between, and I reckon it’s still too early to be thinking we’ll spend the rest of our lives together, but I won’t deny that he’s a strong contender. Lockdown wouldn’t be nearly as bearable without him.
Shaking myself out of the pleasant distraction, I resume my search for some appropriate attire. A white top wouldn’t be bad with the blue denim, but maybe I could shake it up a little and wear the seafoam shirt for once. It’s a tiny, frankly insignificant decision, but it’s holding me up more than I’d like to admit.
Perhaps it would be easier if I picked out the clothes nobody is supposed to see instead.
Shifting focus from the hangers to the pigeon holes stuffed with shoes and undergarments, I reach in and retrieve knickers, a bra and…
I frown.
A single sock?
That’s unusual. Normally I turn them inside out to keep each pair together, and they never come apart unless the elastic has worn. I threw out all the defunct ones just last month.
“Pumpkin,” I beckon as I begin digging through the pile again, and find three more socks without a matching partner. “Honey bun. Could you come here for a minute?”
Somewhere else in the house, he hops down from his perch and trots toward me, but rather than the sharp click-clack of hooves I’m used to hearing when he treads into the kitchen for the hallway, it sounds… dulled. Somewhat. And as if a twig has snapped in the dead of night, pins and needles slither up my spine – somehow, on some instinctive level, I know what’s coming.
I whip around just as he slows to a halt in the doorway, the corner of his muzzle curling upwards in a sly smirk. And on all four of his hooves, a sock from each incomplete pair, most of them sporting love hearts, or another equally whimsical pattern.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, tossing the clothes I’d gathered to the floor and folding my arms. “Is this… payback for earlier with the—”
He shakes his head, still grinning, and leans against the doorframe as he stomps out his reply.
I bought these.
My eyes widen, and a lead weight sinks into my abdomen. He had indeed bought them, for Valentine’s Day. For me. With my credit card. Which means that if I allowed him to do something nice for me before, using my own money, and I liked it… why shouldn’t I do the same for Christmas?
This isn’t just a prank, it’s a protest, and he’s rubbing it in.
“Give them back.”
Pumpkin doesn’t respond, or even react. He just stares and smiles.
“I’m not joking, sweetie,” I declare, steeling my resolve for more extreme measures. “You mess with my things, I’ll mess with your face. Give them back. Please.”
And still he refuses, shaking his head once more, and just as gleefully.
I pout, frowning, but feel a flitter of satisfaction bubble up from the depths, because now I have the chance to put him in his place; how dare he try to do something nice for me on a special day.
“Alright then,” I foxily murmur while turning back into the wardrobe. reaching for the topmost shelf. “Let’s make this rather simple, shall we?” Gripping the handle beneath the spare bedsheets, I whirl about and aim the Nerf Maverick directly between his eyes, the spring already cocked and ready to fire. “You have exactly ten seconds to remove those socks from your person, or I will end you.”
His ears perk up, his brows rise, and he hoists himself from the doorframe, a faint wiggle shivering through his body. If he were any further through the entrance, perhaps I’d have seen his tail wag, because his grin does anything but shrink. Whether I like it or not, this is precisely what he wanted.
“Get over here, Pumpkin, or I will go Sarah Connor on your butt. Just try me.”
True to his infuriatingly endearing nature, and without missing a beat, he stomps the carpet with both forehooves, one after the other, rears up onto his hindlegs, dabs, and bolts for the living room just as I pull the trigger.
“You little…!” I load the next round and scamper after him, snatching the spent dart so I still have six rounds. “That’s it! No more internet for you! That meme is dead and it should stay dead, and I’ll bury it alongside you!”
He dives behind the couch while I round the corner. I could play it safe and take cover behind the dividing wall in the kitchen, but I have him on the run – caught him unawares and now he’s on the backfoot. The less chance he has to prepare, the better. So, I charge.
And then I freeze, ice shooting through my veins like lightning.
There he is, poking the top of his head over the sofa’s backrest, and telekinetically aiming a belt-fed Vulcan at me. I’d gambled and lost; he’d always been prepared. But the real question is when and how he’d bought that contraption, because I certainly…
…Unless…
“…That’s where the mysterious eighty dollar charge on my card came from, isn’t it?”
He nods, and then opens fire.
Outdoor exercise isn’t really feasible anymore, the virus notwithstanding. Winter has arrived with a vengeance, as if it thinks we’d gotten off lightly the last time it swung by. Even if we could go anywhere, we’d have to spend a couple of hours shovelling snow from the driveway and making sure the car is ready for cold weather.
Fortunately, the house is fairly well insulated, which means that all the warmth we generate stays inside; so much the better because there is no fireplace, and the only heater I have works half as well as it should. That’s where kirin cuddles come in handy.
Much of the day up to this point has been pretty uneventful – long periods of nothing punctuated by instances of pure chaos – but now the sun has set and I’m nearly ready for bed again. Christmas used to be special many, many years ago, but discovering Santa Claus’ true identity sapped all the magic out of it, and quarantine has made it feel even less remarkable; a day like any other.
However, I’d be lying if I concluded that today didn’t have its moments, and I pull Pumpkin a little closer, holding him tighter as I take a deep whiff of his natural scent. Showers be damned, he doesn’t need shampoo to smell this good.
We’re in the middle of watching the first episode from Star Trek: Voyager. I’ve heard it isn’t the most popular among hardcore fans, but I don’t care. I grew up with it. Everyone is allowed their own guilty pleasures, and thankfully Pumpkin shares most of them with me, although that’s probably because everything is so foreign and exotic to him. I can’t imagine living in a world without wi-fi.
I look up at him from his shoulder, and to my surprise he isn’t focussed on the television. Instead, he’s staring out the living room window to the street, where the neighbours’ homes shine and sparkle from across the road.
Surprise dims into a neutral feeling, like boiling water taken off the stove, and I sigh dispassionately through my nose. This isn’t the first time I’ve caught him gawking at the Christmas light, and it still doesn’t make much sense to me. But then again, if I’m so curious, what’s the harm in asking?
“Hey,” I whisper, sitting up a tad straighter and rubbing his chest to get his attention. “I thought you wanted to see Captain Catherine Jane-Way.”
His ears twitch and he turns to me brows high, then nods feverishly and gestures to the screen, before gently guiding my palm away from his chest so that he can answer.
I do.
I hold his gaze, then peer around his neck and mane for the strobing lights – chains upon chains of colourful, flashing bulbs and illuminated decorations, including snowmen, reindeer and a sleigh on the rooftop. “And yet the Kellys’ fancy special effects are more fascinating.”
His flanks tense for a brief moment – a clear sign that I’ve caught something in the act – but it isn’t until he deflates with a sigh of his won that I realise this deserves far more attention. So as I lift myself from his side and allow him to face me from the corner of the sofa, I retrieve the TV remote and mute the volume. Just when Voyager was being flung across to the other end of the universe.
He presents his hoof, I give him my hand, and he looks me in the eye with a small, delicate smile.
I always wanted to see Hearth’s Warming. It sounded so wondrous. People together, friends and family, happy and warm, no anger. Kirin did not have this.
I blink, a spark of bewilderment igniting in my core. “You had no holidays?”
Pumpkin holds up his hoof to call for silence and softly shakes his head.
We had celebrations, but they were not so enjoyable.
“Because you couldn’t speak?”
He nods.
We did not leave home because we could not be understood, but I yearned to see the lights. The wider world. I did not expect to stay this long in yours.
I laugh and smirk, arching an eyebrow. “Is that regret I hear?”
Once again, he shakes his head, and his grin widens as he leans in, shuts his eyes and bumps his nose against mine.
You are the best mistake of my life.
“Likewise, honey bun.” I giggle and humour him with a peck on the lips. “Weird how things come full circle, isn’t it? Hearth’s Warming in Equestria, Christmas on Earth, same traditions and everything.”
Not all.
“No, I suppose not.” Scratching behind his ears, I pull myself away from him and admire the satisfied purr rumbling from his barrel. “We have the Romans to thank for that.”
Opening his eyes and furrowing his brows, he brings a hoof to my wrist, lowers my outstretched arm and cocks his head curiously.
I nearly facepalm. More than half the country barely understands the whole of human history, so why should I expect a de facto alien to know more than we do? “They’re a civilisation from way back when,” I explain with a flippant wave, “about two thousand years ago, or something like that. They had this festival called Saturnalia. It started off as a celebration for the last harvest of the year, but then they codified an actual date and spread the party out for a whole week.”
After a pause, he gestures for me to continue.
And here I wanted to watch a TV show set in the distant future. “They wore beanies, exchanged gifts, and every household appointed a king. Any order the king gave, the people had to follow, but it was silly stuff like dancing and drinking.”
He slowly nods, fascinated, and I see his thoughts wandering to that far-off horizon where imagination lies. It’s a good thing I didn’t mention the sacrifices and slavery. Tonight is too good a night to spoil.
Speaking of silly stuff...
“Hey,” I quietly call, gently bopping his snout with a fingertip, “you wanna do something silly?”
The contact appears to stun him somewhat, but he quickly recovers and hones his focus on me once more, then nods amicably.
“Wanna watch the greatest Christmas movie of all time?”
He frowns again, confused.
How is that silly?
“You’ll see.” Stealing the remote and pressing the eject button, I hop up from the couch and weave around the coffee table for the cabinet. The case for Voyager is already open, displaying the remaining disks for Season One, but I guess we can always resume them at another time. Presently, I remove the first disk from the tray and put it back where it belongs, and as I replace the case into its proper draw, I pull out another and twirl about to face him with a grin of my own. “It’s a good day to Die Hard, wouldn’t you say?”
Pumpkin’s eyes widen, and his tail begins to wag.
Oh yeah, this boy is a keeper for sure.
