I'm in the spare two-flat I once lived in as a wee one. Person L from my history has come—for Christmas, I guess. We have a small tree in the empty front room and I am taking little wooden Christmas trinkets from a box. "Trim lightly," says L wrily from another room. I make a small assembly of trees, animals, and melty-shaped hobgoblins in front of the tree.

My mother comes home and sees L from the threshold. She smiles and says, "Hello," then crosses the room, to set down her bags and take some things out. "That's awkward," blurts L. I giggle nervously. "What's awkward?" asks my mother in good humor. "That she took so long after crossing the room," says L. I awake into a miasma with stretching.