Outside the window, snow is falling, swirling its way to the ground. A fire crackles in the background, keeping the room nice and toasty. A woman sits on the sofa, a cup of hot chocolate in her hand. She looks pensive, as if struggling with a difficult decision; her big brown eyes seem lost in thought. She sips, the delicate china cup tipping slightly. Placing the cup on the nearby table, she reaches for a pad of paper and a pen, her chestnut hair falling forward to partially hide her face.
She sits back, a single tear rolls down her cheek. She brushes it away, a bit ashamed that it fell. She brings the pen to her lips, chewing it. With a sigh, she begins to write.
Dear Mark,
So often I think of you. The way you held me in your arms made me feel safe. That is a feeling I haven't felt in such a long time. Not a day goes by when your handsome face doesn't float before my eyes, teasing me with the memory of the nights we shared. My body longs for you, your touch and there is naught I can do about it. You sparked within me a fire not easily put out. I crave all of the things we did, together. You opened me up to so many delightful things that I likely would not have experienced otherwise. For that, I thank you.
I feel as though part of me is missing. I am listless, restless, hoping against hope for a message from you. I know that it cannot be and should not be. But it is. You brought a much needed smile to my lips, a laugh to my eyes, a song to my heart. I know, I vowed to keep my heart separate, aloof, locked away from you. It didn't work. However unintentionally, you broke through all of my defenses, scaled the walls I built around myself and wormed your way into my heart and soul.
I failed to realize it was happening until it was too late. You had already left. They say parting is such sweet sorrow and I have to agree. I cried for days after you had gone, hating myself for being so weak, cursing you for leaving and not feeling what I felt. I know it's futile to write this, but I feel that I ma receive some closure in expressing this torment I am going through. I do not intend to send this letter, not that I have your new address anyway. I hope to find some comfort, some peace in the act of putting my thoughts on paper.
You will forever remain in my soul, tormenting me. You took with you a piece of me that I can never get back. I wish you well. I hope that your decision to leave brings you good fortune and the happiness you seek. I am saddened that said happiness could not be found within my arms. Please remember that you touched a part of me that I long thought dead.
Christmas is coming and you know how difficult holidays are for me. My friends and family ask me what I want for Christmas, and I tell them that I haven't a clue. But I do know what I want. All I want for Christmas is you.
With all the love that I possess,
Genevieve
The tears are flowing freely now, spotting the paper and causing the ink to blur. She curses them, reaching for a Kleenex to blot them. She places the note pad on the table and gets up. Banking the fire, she turns out the lights, locks the door and heads to the bedroom. Silently, she removes her clothes and slips between the cool flannel sheets, burying her face in the pillow. Within moments, she is asleep.
Back in the living room, the letter she wrote flutters, as if blown by an unseen wind. It tears from the note pad, rising up toward the ceiling. Small starbursts surround it, twinkling in the darkened room. The paper seems to fade, growing more and more transparent until it is gone, along with the sparkles, leaving no trace that they had ever been there. The only remnant of the letter is the impression on the note pad and moist splotches.
~~~~~
The next few days are a blur of activity. She has totally forgotten about the letter, not even noticing that it has effectually disappeared. She wraps presents for her friends and family, bakes cookies for her coworkers, loses herself in holiday preparations. She used to enjoy the holidays, wishing everyone, even strangers season's greetings. The past few years have been hard on her, she lost things that were irreplaceable, including herself. She fights back tears once again as she hangs the final decorations on her small tree.
A solid knock at her door rouses her out of her reverie. It's Christmas Eve, who could be knocking at her door? Dusting her hands off, she opens the door.
His back is to her, bundled in a heavy winter coat and hat. She doesn't recognize him.
"May I help you?" She asks, impatiently.
He turns then and shock spreads through out her body.
"Hi, Gen," he says.
"W-w-what are you doing here?"
