𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌 . bob dylan

𝑰𝑽.

DECEMBER

Magda pushed the metal cookie tray into the Rover stove. She closed the metal door with a gust of hot air and tossed the potholder onto the counter. Bobby was sitting on the living room floor, with a quilt wrapped around him, listening to the record player.

He was just thinking, like he sometimes did. He would sit quietly and focus his eyes on one thing. Magda took a sip of her bitter wine, grimacing at its tartness and setting it back down on the counter.

For months, Bobby and Magda couldn't be torn apart, especially during the holidays. All December they went everywhere together. The bodega the next block over, the post-office, the deli owned by Italians beside the library. Anywhere they went, they went together. They held hands while they walked along the white lines at the crosswalk, and they leaned against brick walls and talked about all the beautiful people passing by them. The old woman and men, the giggling children, the mean teenagers who were too young to be smoking cigarettes.

"I've seen this one girl, she's real pretty," Bobby started quietly.

"Oh yeah? What's she look like?" Magda said, smiling with her row of big white teeth.

"Hmm. She's so pretty, I don't even think you'd believe me." Then Bobby would turn them both around and point in the barbershop window, whispering, "She looked something like that."

Magda's face would get red hot, and Bobby's smirk wouldn't go away. They'd get big hot chocolates or black coffees or herbal teas at the cafe across the street from their apartment building. And they would hold hands all the way back to their now-warm apartment and Bobby would put a hand on her head and tell her that she was very pretty, and Magda would hug his skinny frame and tell him he was prettier.

They held hands everywhere and began to share clothes. Bobby would wear one of Maggie's big fishermen-knit sweaters, and Magda would wear his dress shirts underneath her sweater-vests and Magda made sure that Bobby never went out into the cold without a big scarf, or his lips and cheeks would be red chapped when they arrived home.

A week before Christmas, Bobby drove in Magda's black Ford Mustang–the one she'd bought with the money from her first book–and drove outside of the city. It was so cold, and Magda wore big mittens and a big jacket. They drove until the big buildings and the crowded sidewalks disappeared and it was just the dull gray road and their shiny car. Magda snaked an arm around Bobby's waist, and he continued driving. He had both hands on the wheel and would occasionally take one hand off to rub Maggie's cold arm. He was wearing all black and his hair was sticking out in its usual light brown curls.

Bobby slowed down when he saw the wooden sign, Buckley Christmas Trees, and pulled up onto the grass. "Come on, Magda," he smiled, turning the car off. She stepped out, and Bobby stepped next to her to put a hand around her neck. She was breathing cold puffs of white air and her legs were shaking with cold.

There were a few men with denim jeans and thick flannel shirts. They wore cowboy boots, and hats, and thick yellow carpenters' gloves. They nodded to the two of them and they passed through the many rows of pine trees.

"I promise I'll get a great big one when we don't live in that little apartment," Bobby said, looking at the skinny branches of one that was smaller than him.

"You know I don't care about that," Magda said, walking away from Bobby to look at the fuller trees. Bobby followed behind her, smiling at her giddiness.

✶

Magda set the plate of sugar cookies on the coffee table. Bobby was gazing out of the patio window, looking out onto the busy streets. Magda sat cross-legged beside him.

The streets were bustling, and a gentle slant of snow fell. Below them was a large group of children, caroling with their congregation, or taking the subway to an art museum.

"Look!" Bob smiled, pressing his finger to the window. "Look at the lovers over there!"

Magda followed his finger to the street corner. A young man leaned against the building corner, leaning so he was the same height as the young woman in front of him.

Bobby looked at them with a parted smile. When they traveled in the car, he'd point to two people holding hands. When they took the subway, Bob would whisper in her ear about the couple sitting across from them.

Magda moved her gaze from the two, spinning around the wood floor to rest her head against Bobby's leg.

"When I get sick of the city–whether that be tomorrow or in ten years–won't you move out to the mountains with me?" Bobby said.

"I'd move anywhere with you. The Rockies, Appalachia...Cuba." Bob smiled at her tipsy joke.

"I mean really. We'd have a nice cabin or something."

"And you'd discover your solitude, like Thoreau. 'To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude'," Maggie recited slowly. Bobby looked away from the lovers, then, and down at Magda. "I think you're better than solitude...Bobby. Far better."

"Oh, you know what I mean, Maggie."

"Of course I do, I'm just teasing," she said, tapping her fingers against her stomach.

"I could have a garden and you could pick out the flowers–you like flowers–and we could...I don't know, start a family."

"Sure, sure. Later, though," Magda grinned. Bobby squinted his eyes, looking out the window again. Magda spoke with a laugh, "Can we dance first?"

"Mag-" Bobby said meekly. Magda stood up, carefully tugging on his sleeve like a little kid. Maggie's Frank Sinatra vinyl was spinning on the record player and Bobby snuck his hands around her as they shuffled around their small living room floor. Bobby's muscles relaxed around her, and he smiled into her hair.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby."

"Merry Christmas, Mag."