Sprawled on an ugly ocher comforter on a motel bed in Des Moines, she laps up lukewarm IKEA glögg and fingers his Polaroids. A cluster of family holiday clichés testify with the zeal of a sweaty faith healer to a closeness that is closed to her. She studies the saccharine images, knowing that, like Santa in his sleigh, she swoops in at night, filling gaps as if they were Yuletide stockings. As the next link in the relentless chain of rendez-vous draws near, she mounts the mistletoe over a Gideon Bible, welcoming the work of a cryptic Matchmaker.
"Classic"
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