Christmas, by Antonia Rachel Ward

You wore red to the party. I remember you arriving, eyes shining, cheeks flushed by the cold, snowflakes drifting through the door in your wake. Crystal droplets clung to your curls as you slipped off your coat and gloves. Your dress was like the lick of a flame in the dim room.

You were early, and the thought that it was from eagerness to see me made my heart skip. You crossed the room and slid into the seat beside me, turning to me, your face radiant. I had never seen you burn so bright.

“I’ve met someone,” you said.