Carole

Carole loved Christmas. She always had. All the pretty

lights sparkling through the cold, frosty air seemed

brighter than diamonds set in platinum. It was one of

the reasons everyone called her “Yuletide Carole.”

Her eyes sparkled with joy and she gave a squeal of

delight when she heard her lover’s key in the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” she said.

“I hoped you would,” Chet said as he shed his gloves,

muffler, and coat.

She stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss before

leading him to the loveseat in the den.

“What’s that?” he asked as he pointed to a chafing dish

of cashews balanced on the hearth, close to the flames.

“Silly.” Carole chuckled and reached for a potholder.

“Those are yours.”

“Mine?”

“You know.” She lifted the hot metal dish and poured a

few cashews into a bowl. “Chet’s nuts, roasting by an

open fire.”

He popped a few into his mouth, then hers. “I love the

way you suck the salt off before you nibble so daintily.”