Stay Away

christmas eve

Christmas Shopping is a mandatory activity that earns me blisters and numb fingers and the urge to pick up the crazy blonde woman marching me from shop door to shop door and carry her back to our hotel. The bags only get heavier, though I am not entirely sure who she is buying these gifts for, and my opinions only become less appreciated as time ticks on. She claims it is not valid to say that every item would look more desirable tomorrow. I have never seen this side of Leah before, and I do not know if it is because she is grief-stricken and experimenting with ways to cope, or because she has simply forgotten to buy every single person in her life a Christmas present (foreign concept).

Eventually, we trudge through the snow with four, very-full shopping bags and red noses that burn the minute we step into the hotel's warmth. Leah sniffs, and I set the bags down to ensure that she does not cry while standing alone. If she is going to be upset, I am going to be there beside her. That is the whole reason I have brought her here. This place, though I will not be telling Leah, is important to my family in a way that can only be described as a hotel that has some of our most special memories engraved in its wooden beams. It is sacred. We bring those who we love; we do not dare to bring significant others who will be strangers in two months. I have decided that I love her, unequivocally. Whether I delay the inevitable or not is a different matter, and one that should be separated from the current situation at hand.

We return to our room with a pleasant ache in our muscles; an indicator of a productive shopping trip. She toes off her snowboots in an endearingly clumsy way, wobbling so much that her phone slips out of her coat pocket and slams onto the wooden floor with a bang. I jump, knocking over the bedside lamp. The thin walls Ida so subtly reminded me about will be an issue for our neighbours, but solely because neither Leah nor I seem to be spatially-aware enough to keep the room in tact.

Leah is quick to shed her layers of clothing, relishing in the warm bed sheets as she ruins the neat display of the deep red and earthy brown cushions. She rolls onto her back, moaning about how I am just standing there, watching. I hum in response, but remain in my position. The view is perfect.

I can see the snowy rooftops of the houses of the village, and the dots of people walking back from a day on the slopes. The window shows me beautiful things, but my favourite is in the bed below me. Her eyes, though the tears have not dried, sparkle with a glimmer of hope; stormy grey relaxing into something calmer, softer. And she smiles at me. It is the most glorious sight of all. Glorious, because I see the love that I have for her mirrored right back at me. It is as if she is every 'I love you too' to my 'I love you'. I wonder whether it could have always been like this.

"You are staring," Leah murmurs, though it is no longer a complaint. Most would grow bashful, but Leah seems to bask in the attention. "I'm not an exhibit, you know. C'mere." She beckons for me to join her, to which I pull at my coat and layers with disdain. I am simply stalling; I am in her arms no less than a minute later, extra clothing piled on the floor in a forgotten heap.

"I would put you in an art gallery," I confess once settled, too comfortable for my own good. I have spent the past few days doing the holding and the comforting and the cradling. It is almost alien to feel so safe because of someone else. To feel like the one being cared for. "I would have to stuff your mouth with a sock though, otherwise you would bother the visitors by asking for an update on the football." Leah belongs somewhere more divine than whatever this is.

"And to think you were almost romantic." Her laugh hits my neck, her mouth just shy of brushing the skin exposed there. We savour the moment together, lying quietly as though a sound would dissolve the illusion and bring us back to reality. It is hard to believe that this is my reality.