Therese had never said, but Carol knew that she preferred the Christmases like these, just the two of them sitting tailor fashion in front of the twinkling shrub of a tree, listening to The Magic of Christmas and eating Chinese food out of cartons.
Carol liked piles of presents, and giggling grandchildren, and turkey and potatoes and all of the rest of it. But she didn’t mind this, not at all. She’d been lucky, she thought, to find the love of her life before she was thirty, to have thirty good years and maybe another ten to look forward to. She thought about leaning over to kiss Therese, and then she thought about the arthritis in her hip. “Come here,” she said. “I want to kiss you.”
Therese said, “I want to kiss you, too,” blew a kiss over, and then put another forkful of noodles in her mouth.