“Hello, O. I’m D.” Christmas in the
Adirondacks. Aggravating guestwork.
So I make a list of t-shirts and every-
thing comes back to you. The pressed
hair, the extra sugar. But the gravity
of such a moment, the expulsion,
an awkward shift from seething
grace to malappropriate. “But
I don’t do it like that.” The
big machine twists around
onto its threes, like sluggish
oxen sex, and makes hello.
