If you know no other this year, know this one: the day off for an appointment. The lovely dark-haired doctor, tall and in Wisconsin-sensible shoes, admits to tanning the night before. She admires your red Chucks for what they are: canvas impracticality. At noon, light all the candles in the apartment and play Aretha on the record player the way your mother would have, then light yourself cigarette after daytime cigarette. When the snow begins to fall—movie-flakes—pour a tumbler of coffee vodka. Raise a toast to small victories. Later you take yourself out to lunch at the type of place where the staff wear suspenders, and if anyone were to see you and your love walking through the neon drifts, your fingers in his pockets, they would think you happy: your shoes, bright cardinals underfoot.
