Merry Christmas Miss Malone, is what you will say to me my dear. You will have your scarf pulled up to your nose, because lets face it, we are young and economical with our heat and the house is not entirely warm even in the coldest of months. Regardless, sheepishly, coy maybe, you look up through heavy glasses, ridiculous snarly curls, with those eyes, which are at the moment a sort of brown, actually no, wait, more like green at the moment. They were brown yesterday, which is actually the future, but no matter, tense is not needed in where we live my lovely. You hold a small parcel, wrapped in newspaper. Tied with a dusty green yarn that I'm guessing you haphazardly found while rummaging through an abandoned closet. No matter, I know you are not keen on useless aesthetics. I take it, and as I open it you watch my eyes move back and fourth, scanning the small packing looking for the most appropriate place to begin the paper carnage. I can still smell the cold air in your hair and whisky on your breath (mixed with cheap coffee to keep you warm inside). I gasp. She gasps.
Merry Christmas Miss Malone.