It was December, and I had used a ladder to hang the Christmas lights around the house. The front piano key fence had an array of lights that flashed through a cycle of colors. The snow quickened its fall with larger flakes than the night before.
Just as I stood, observing my work, Natasha stormed outside in her bathrobe.
Natasha finger-pointed me out of a lineup of cheaters she caught red-handed,
but I withheld my suspicion over her innocence.
Natasha had me blocked in the driveway. She had her finger inches from my face. Her eyes crinkled, and her teeth bared as she pushed accusations across her teeth.
I found my fault, nude, in the back seat of my Jeep, windows fogged to high heaven,
and the engine running for the air conditioner to bless us with its cool touch.
We parked beneath a broken streetlight in a spot behind the park.
Natasha saw what she thought she saw.
I stood before her with my chin tucked, and my eyes glanced at the nearby trees.
I heard her rapid statements, aligning with her overacting skills
and a whiff of vodka breath.
Taken aback by enticing thoughts, I turned the tables.
I told her I knew what I saw at last year’s Christmas party.
Natasha’s gaze widened, and her chin dropped over the blush, replacing her pale complexion. I was stupid, but not that stupid.
Natasha went from looping her arms around her waist to resting her fists on her hips.
Neither of us has perfection written above our foreheads. I gripped her shoulders. I had no intentions of leaving. Natasha told me neither did she. Oh, and I told her one more thing. That car she saw me in wasn’t me. I sold that car a year ago. Natasha sighed, and her shoulder sank. I wasn’t perfect, but I’d never cheat, not on Natasha.
Natasha didn’t cheat. She wanted me to hurt, too. She snuggled into my arms and sobbed until I forgave her. Natasha cried, but they weren’t sad tears. I asked what she was thinking about. Natasha pointed out the Christmas lights
could be less crooked.
We both laughed over hot chocolate.