Two or three weeks too late, the silver bells unhung, the tree laid out to wither near the curb, the last of the needles swept out from between the cold floorboards, I finally sat down to watch White Christmas liked we’d planned. I couldn’t believe it was still streaming after the fact, once the house had settled into stillness, the platters of comfort foods and frozen casseroles tucked away in the fridge, the extended family all back home, with their hugs and tearful vows to keep in touch, you better. By the time I was ready to turn on the film, the neighbors had already put up their big Valentine’s display, and the neon candy hearts in their windows cast a weird glow through the blinds. On screen, I kept mixing up Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby, but I wouldn’t let myself cheat by looking up which actor was which because that was your job. To tell me these things, being the one who selected the movie, who insisted on these sentimental little rituals. When they sang, I tried to close my eyes and trick myself into believing it was still last year, or the year before, any of our years together really, settled in under the blanket with you and a movie I couldn’t care less about, while I patronized you, allowing you to wax philosophic about Hollywood’s Golden Age. You were always incredulous about my dearth of knowledge in this arena, and I was always a little appalled that you’d use an ugly word like “dearth,” but I liked how the conversation always ended with you promising to make it your life’s mission to fill in my gaps. Tonight, while one of the actors sang, the neighbors went to bed. I could tell the exact moment they were ready to call it a night because just then, the love lights gleaming through the window suddenly went out and Bing or Danny or whoever it was faded a little on screen, and next to me, a shadow darkened your dent on the couch cushion.