December 27, 2005

Sometime after the slaughter of swine, Laura came to pick me up so I could spend Christmas Day at her house. “And you can stay the night,” she said excitedly, “as long as you don’t splooge on the couch.”

“Deal.” I said. In the winter, country roads are beautiful and endless, and I told her about the night before.

“A while ago there was this kid who came by our house all the time. She was vicious — I used to throw her down the stairs whenever she bit my ankles, and she would just climb right back up and start attacking me again. Well, she was at the party last night. She’s 16 now and takes karate — throwing her down the stairs was out of the question.

“So instead we decided to sneak out for a coffee. We got into her mother’s car, and since she didn’t have her license I naturally let her drive us around town. I didn’t put my seatbelt on, and she drove erratically while blasting her dance music and talking on her cellphone. Her window was rolled down all the way and I was cold, and what’s worst, slightly afraid of dying. But we drove on, looking for a Tim Hortons that would be open for Christmas. None were. We searched from one end of the town to the other.

“At midnight she started calling her friends as we drove through quiet suburbs. We met strange, wonderful people in the night. She would stop the car, we would smoke on someone’s snow-covered lawn, and then move on in the dark. Everything felt senseless and beautiful.

“I believe 16-year-olds live far more interesting and tragic lives than I do.”

“Oh, you and your 16-year-olds,” Laura said, laughing. For the rest of the day, Laura and I ate delicious turkey, exchanged chocolates, and caressed each other endlessly. Somehow, I managed not to make a complete fool of myself around her parents … until I splooged on the couch.