One Day They’ll Name This Street After Me (Pt. I)

He held her head with his left hand as it rested on his chest. He could smell the familiar smell of her shampoo. It was a smell that, until recently, had remained nameless to him.

(He remembered their first trip down to the corner drug store. It was a chilly, sunny Sunday afternoon. She was bundled in a down jacket and her old purple scarf. She slipped on an ice patch while he took pictures of the city streets for the folks back home. “Another bruise,” she laughed. In the store, he bought some deodorant and gum. She needed shampoo. She grabbed her usual bottle. Hah, it’s just regular shampoo, he thought.)

He held her head closer. She giggled. “Christmas in Prison” was playing from her open laptop. The radiator popped and hissed. It had to be as old as the building itself. He kissed the back of her head, watched the snow fall over the city through the open curtains. His phone rang. He slid it across the hardwood. It came to a rest as it thudded against the far wall, underneath her old couch. The vibration finally died down, and he walked across the room to put the kettle on the gas stove. She lay on her side, seemingly hypnotized by the lights on the tree.

It had been a stressful few months. Graduations, trips to far away places, moving, moving again. A new city. New jobs. New friends. But it was Christmas, and they were on their own this year. Somehow he thought that would make him sad, but he couldn’t help but smile. Life was simple, and he loved it.

He asked her if she wanted to open a present and took the kettle off the stove.