How to Paint Our Skies

How to Be Timeless

Dear Fin,

    Today, I got a letter in the mail from Jeanine. I could tell that it was from Jeanine before I had read the address; since there was only one person I know who sends her mail in magenta envelopes. The sight of the envelope brought up a smirk in my part, but it was brought wider upon seeing the stationary (bright orange, framed in fake peacock feathers). I didn't smile, however, at the letter's contents.

    Jeanine bragged for several lines about her new family; her dotting husband and daughter (you remember my demonic niece, don't you?). Afterwards, she discussed our family's annual Christmas party, which I was required to attend or I'd be considered for banishment. And, of course, just the mention of that jolly occasion brought a frown to my lips.

    I hate Christmas.

    My hatred for the joyous holiday started with you, I'm afraid; when I skipped my family's Christmas party for you and you dumped me . . . but that's another story, one I don't really want to get into at the moment.

     I remember a time where I used to love Christmas; as a child, it had been the only time where I truly felt like I belonged among my family members. I can still taste the peppermint on my tongue, the snowflakes on my cheeks, the joy of giving in my heart . . . but alas, I am poor. I cannot afford to buy gifts this holiday season.

    The thought of returning home is bittersweet. I will see my father and Bea, plus maybe I'll catch Etta. Maybe I'll see you. But then again . . . I'll see my mother and sister. Maybe I'll see you. I'd rather remain here, working twenty-four/seven throughout the holiday season. But I know my family would never forgive me, so I am forced to head home.

    But the thoughts of this Christmas bring me back to another . . .

    Encounter Number Thirty-One:

    Until you arrived, I had been sitting on the top step of the staircase, waiting for you. I didn't mind being alone since I didn't necessarily enjoy the company of my family, but especially tonight because I was feeling suffocated. I had a long session at therapy the day before and . . . and I didn't want to breathe. I wanted to stop being alive. And being around those who did was so painful it threatened to send me over the edge.

    But then the door knocked and I smiled. And like a child, I skipped down the door, ripping the door open in hope.

    Upon seeing you, instantly a grin shaped my lips; you looked so incredibly handsome, like a rebel angel on my doorstep. You wore a black suit with a white-button up shirt underneath, no tie in the equation. You didn't look like yourself, but you still looked absolutely stunning. In your hands, you held a bouquet of flowers. Daisies, which was ironic.

     "Hell-lo, gorg-gorgeous," I greeted.

    Seeing you was like a breath of fresh air. I had wanted to stop breathing, but you reminded me of the pleasantry of having oxygen in my lungs. You gave me purpose.

    "Hi," you murmured, offering me the flowers. I took them.

    You eyed me from head to toe, making me blush. My family's Christmas party was more formal –showing in your attire, since you never wore anything but ripped up jeans and band shirts- so I was attired to fit the format. Or my mother might disown me. The aquamarine dress was patterned with daisies, clinging to my waist and falling right above my knees, curling around my collarbone and cupping my shoulders; my scarred arms were exposed, but if anyone noticed, they didn't mention it. I wore tights and cream oxfords.

    "Fuck," you said, your eyes still wandering up and down my body.

    I smiled, still blushing, unsure how to react to your attention. "Mis-mistle-toe."