Vince Roman

The Christmas tree lights stab; slow then fast then slow, like they’re arguing over how hard to gut me. Each stab smacks another color across my face: red, then green, then red. My cousin, she sits cross-legged under the sagging tree. Marlboro smoke chokes the air. Wrapping paper clings to her frilled pink socks, her OshKosh jeans, and the wet Schlitz spot stamped into the carpet by my uncle’s boot. Wham! blasts too loud “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart” the stereo wobbling like it’s...