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EXCERPT
All
I Want for Christmas
Jennifer D. Bokal
December 22
My hands trembled as
I took the small box from the UPS man. I knew exactly what
was inside. My husband Jake has wanted this for as long as I
have known him. It is something I was never willing to give. But
this Christmas is different. Ten years of marriage and three
kids have changed a lot of things about me. Change is a good
thing, right?
“We’ll see,” I
thought while opening the brown cardboard box. Packed in
tissue paper was a red velvet bag. The bag felt heavier than
I had imagined. When I opened the drawstring, a small scream
of surprise escaped my throat. I stopped short. My internal
Mommy Radar tuned into the Baby Napping frequency. Not
hearing the yowl of a cranky two-year-old, I reached for the
phone.
After two rings, my
best friend and neighbor Eva answered. “Hello,” she breathed
heavily into the receiver.
“Eva? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just
trying to move the Christmas tree and clean underneath.”
“Clean, under
the tree,” I asked incredulously, sitting down at the
kitchen table. “Why on earth would you to do that?”
“Captain Sparks ate
fruitcake and then threw up under the tree.”
“Ewww. This
is why I will never have a dog. They are nasty creatures.”
The word “nasty” brings me back to the reason I called.
“Hey! They came in!”
“Really? What do
they look like?”
Taking the silver
steel bands out of the bag, I studied them. They are cold
and hard. The black velvet on the inside makes them look
more cheap and sleazy than I expected.
“Like handcuffs,” I
replied, trying to hide my anxiety. Do I really want to
do this? “They have keys and everything,” I said,
depositing two shiny metal keys beside the red bag.
“Sarah, my friend,
this really is a whole new you! When you said you wanted to
bring excitement back into your life, you weren’t kidding.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Maybe I should have gotten my shoulder length chestnut hair
cut short. All the other thirty-something mommies who want
to get back into the groove seem to be doing just that.
Trying to change the subject, I added, “I cannot believe how
long it took for these handcuffs to get here. I ordered them
right after Thanksgiving. Do you think I should send an
e-mail and complain?”
“Do you recall the
name of the web site where you ordered your handcuffs?”
“Yeah, it was Sex
Fifth Avenue.”
What is she getting at?
“Yes, dahling,” Eva
drawled. “Sex Fifth Avenue, not Sax. You should be
thankful your computer didn’t crash.”
“You’re right, they
probably have a different meaning for customer service
anyway,” I added with a smile.
The rumble of the
garage door opener told me Jake was home from the university
where he teaches biochemistry. Even the semester is over, he
always has a research project to keep him busy.
Far from the
pencil-necked geeks that make up most of faculty at Hudson
Valley University, Jake looks like he belongs on the cover
of GQ. His broad shoulders taper down to a thin waist with
tight abs and even tighter butt. Jake follows the workout
schedule he had from our days at HVU when he was captain of
the baseball team. His boyish smile, sandy blonde
hair and green eyes make my husband, Dr. Jacob Ivanovich,
one of the most popular professors at school. All the
female students have a huge crush on him.
“He’s here. I’ve got
to go.”
“Details,” Eva sang,
“I want details.”
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