In a perfect world, I would be spending Christmas with Martin and Cloe.
Martin (not his real name) looks like a pretty nice guy. I like his holiday sweater. There is something very special about his relationship with his cat, Cloe (not her real name).
They both look calm and content. I am nervous and discontent. I think Martin and Cloe are planning a little dinner at home on Christmas Eve. Maybe just a couple of friends will come over to Martin's magnificent condo and enjoy an elegant repast.
Martin and his friends will drink Pouilly-Fuissé and enjoy crab legs in mustard sauce. They will listen to Georg Friedrich Handel's Messiah on CD.
About midnight, his friends, after finishing their coffee and almond torte, they will embrace and depart. Martin and Cloe will lie down on the dark green leather couch and turn on the television and cover themselves with a cashmere throw. Cloe will lie on top of Martin's chest and purr contentedly.
My Christmas will not be like Martin's and Cloe's. It will be noisy and nerve wracking. I have not yet started to Christmas shop. I have not yet thought about Christmas cards.
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