My Cardboard Balcony

Thank You, Vladimir by Belinda Roddie For proposing we stir our cocoa and schnapps with peppermint sticks that will bend and curve like the rim of a pair of glasses. For singing the soprano part of every Christmas carol because Gabriel's voice was too baritone and mine was too mezzo. For finding cheap blue lights to string over the mantel so it looked like the embers were spitting blue fire. For reminding me of beauty. And music. And joy.

The next defense mechanism my brain leapt to was sheer, unadulterated aggression. The bastard didn't even see what was hitting him - literally. I heard his left buttcheek wobble on the pavement as he fell, his tailbone audibly cracking as he clutched his mouth, which I'm sure was devoid of several teeth now. "The fuck, Rowan?" he screamed through a stream of blood.