Too late; in that moment she wafted over the parquet wearing a gossamer gown calculated to draw all eyes. Melissa. As if by instinct, her cold stare homed on Nelson. And then a comedy of errors ensued: her chiffon snagged on a holly wreath, and in extricating herself, she stepped a stiletto heel on a power cord, de-twinkling the tree lights as she butt-flopped onto a pile of presents.

Her spell was broken. Amid the aghast looks and irrepressible titters, Nelson strode over and offered both hands to help her back to her feet. The party awkwardly resumed; she muttered a begrudging thank you, Nelson bowed slightly in acknowledgement, and as she turned to survey the wreckage, he sought his hosts to proffer an excuse for his early departure. When granted such a boon, he reasoned, best not to test the Fates.

2022.12.16

Jan looked fondly on her step-son's science project. The materials were of the simplest: a glass jar, water and alcohol in equal measure, and cooking oil. The oil had now coalesced into a suspended sphere of goldenrod—the dullest of lava lamps, but still fascinating in its way. It occupied pride of place on Erik's bookshelf. Perhaps she should have found him a square jar, to make the ball appear rounder, less squat. She called it his “dragon's eyeball.”

Three nights later, the sphere “spoke” to Erik. It whispered things like “my friend” and “imposters.”

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