At the bar of The Red Pony, Michelle leaned across me to the guy in the three-piece suit who had his Tiffany lighter fired up for her cigarette. She was doing her number—putting her long white fingers on his hand to steady it, showing off her perfect red nails while she gazed up at him and made her mouth bloom around the filtered Marlboro in her most suggestive inhale. I wanted to smack her and tell the guy that he had hit on me, dammit, and that Michelle had gotten a shot of silicone in those fat lips of hers just last week—and the nails were acrylic and that wasn't all that was fake about her. But I didn't say squat and listened as the guy, bragging about his Madison Avenue job and his new Corvette, eased his way around me, talking all the time, like to both of us, and ended up next to Michelle, out of my hearing range altogether. And I didn’t smoke.

The music was too loud at The Pony, and the busy bartender pretended not to hear me when I asked for another drink. I finally dropped a glass on his side of the counter. I felt a little better because after he swept it up, he heard me then. I ordered another double J & B on the rocks with a twist, and of course to get even, he forgot the twist. I avoided looking in the mirror behind the bar. A string of multi-colored lights was taped around it, with a sprig or two of fake holly, so instead I focused hard on those lights, getting them to blink in time to the music. A jazz rendition of Silent Night. I stared until the colors blurred. Then it was closing time.

On the street, bundled in my long coat, I declined a ride, watching Michelle get into a cab with the guy, her arm looped in his in that way that tells you more than you want to know. They waved. I wanted to walk in the cold. The fir trees lining the median of Park Avenue were flocked with twinkly white lights that danced against a gray sky. I inhaled and turned my face up to the wet night. At the corner of Lexington, a crib of tied down, unsold Christmas trees, dusted with snow looked like a mini-manger spread with soft branches. I stood there, crossed my arms over my chest and tightly closed my eyes. I could hear nothing. It was as if New York slept for a moment, totally hushed. Snowflakes stuck to my eyelashes and melted on my lips in the steam of my breath. I spread my arms wide, and fell backwards, toppled like a fallen angel, laughing, crashing onto the trees.