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We ate Chinese instead of turkey for Christmas dinner because it's
what he wanted.
~oOo~
As I fork a mouthful of almond chicken into my mouth, I look across
the table at him and see him smiling at me.
I can't help wondering when it became so important to me to do what he
wanted. I'd never done it for anyone else. Certainly not for poor
Caroline. If she'd told me she'd rather have Chinese instead of the
traditional roast turkey with all the trimmings, I'd have written it
off to some weird aberration and gone out and bought the turkey
anyway. Hell, I'd have cooked it myself, if need be. After all, it was
Christmas, we could do Chinese any time.
When Blair had walked straight past the freezer at the supermarket
without even a glance at the birds just waiting to be picked, I'd
simply followed him, watching with a small smile teasing my lips, as
he bypassed the cranberries in the fruit and veg section, and the
potatoes, and green beans and corn. He'd completely skipped the aisle
where Christmas puddings sat waiting - in cans, in bags, to be plucked
from the shelf and taken home and married with ice cream and cream. My
mouth watered at the thought of what I was obviously going to miss out
on, but I didn't say anything till we reached the checkout.
I looked around at the other shoppers' trolleys, piled high with the
food of celebration and festivity, then into ours, filled a quarter
full with the normal trappings of our weekday shopping - coffee, tea,
sugar, cream, two six-packs of beer, a couple of steaks and some rice.
The makings for lasagne jostled for space with pancake mix and maple
syrup, while lettuce and tomatoes rolled colorfully around the bottom.
Then I asked him why he'd skipped the most important parts of our
Holiday shopping list. He shrugged, smiled and said he'd tell me
later, that he had something planned.
I accepted that, a vision of a fully-catered Christmas dinner from
Maxim's rising improbably into my head. Then I shrugged back at him
and began to unload the shopping on to the checkout counter.
So, here we are, my lover and I, grinning at each other over Hoshi's
best all you can eat banquet. Blair has a piece of moo shu pork
decorating his lower lip, and I reach across, scoop into onto my
finger and place it in his mouth, shivering as his tongue rolls
seductively over my skin.
"So," I ask, lifting my champagne glass and toasting him with it, "Why
Chinese? I know you're Jewish, Chief, but you told me you love
Christmas, the food, the gifts, the whole love your brother routine."
Blair gives me one of those slow, sweet smiles that he reserves only
for me. "Do you remember the very first night you invited me here?" he
asks.
I nod. How could I forget? It was just after Kincaid had taken over
the police station. For a while there I'd thought I'd lost Blair for
good, when I'd realized he was on that chopper with Kincaid, heading
God knows where. Blair had been a little shocky, not surprising
considering all the energy he'd expended, using toilet doors and
vending machines as deadly weapons, not to mention thinking Kincaid
was going to hang him for treason. So, I'd invited him back to my
place and we'd picked up Chinese and?
"That's why?" I ask, making the connection. "But that was months
before we ever did anything-"
Blair nods, places a forkful of rice at my lips and feeds it to me. "I
know, but it was the night I knew I loved you. What better way to
celebrate Christmas?"
I walk around the table and kneel beside his chair, pulling him into
my arms, kissing that beautiful mouth with all the love I can show.
"There's no better way, Blair," I whisper, carding my hands through
the silken strands of his hair. "Chinese for Christmas is perfect."
And it still is.
The End