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Description
We slung our ice skates over our shoulders and I shoved my gloveless, loveless hands into the pockets of my sweater. Veronica and Billy walked next to me with their arms wrapped tightly around each other like pretty ribbons. Their love was enough to keep me warm on a windy black night such as this one.
          Nothing was open in Chicago this time of night. The mini city-that-never-sleeps definitely slept soundly underneath a blanket of pollution-white clouds. Front doors were locked, windows gated, lights dimmed and cashed tucked away for a long winter’s nap.
          The city glowed. It was a Christmas angel’s playground with snowcapped skyscrapers and tinseled skeleton trees. In store windows were pale and hushed mannequins waiting for streets to die so they could come alive and dance in the afterglow. Neon signs and icy sidewalks. Neon and ice. Neon ice.
          We slid down those sidewalks. I slipped on the ice. Blood trickled down my knee, staining my white tights pink. Veronica helped me up and he dusted me off. Billy giggled, watching me flinch as Veronica’s hand brushed against my torn knee. I balled a soft clump of snow in my hand and aimed for Billy’s head. He ducked. But because I had such terrible aim it hit him in the shoulder anyway.
          Billy lunged himself at me and Veronica tackled him and I bit somebody’s arm and we rolled around in the middle of the glistening Jack Frost-kissed sidewalk at twelve AM. on a Saturday night. Ice skates went flying everywhere and crashing to the ground. Mittens came off and screams of joy tinted the air. Sophisticated people in their late-night apparel heading into or out of hundred-dollar hotels, shaking their heads, their stilettos tapping and tux tails dragging along.
          Breathlessly, we laid sprawled out on the frozen ground. We looked up at the sky and tried to see in between the clouds, but the only stars that were out that night were the yellow and white reflections from cars and streetlights and 24-hour businesses glaring off of the towering buildings. Those stars were good enough for me.
          A taxi sped past and I wished on it like a shooting star.
          Veronica shivered in his miniskirt and goose bumps formed up and down his thighs. Billy ran his hand down Veronica’s leg and I closed my eyes.

Billy and Veronica met each other through me.

Billy used to be my boyfriend and during the sweltering hot days we’d rollerblade down LA boulevards while licking each other’s ice cream cones. At night, we’d sit on car roofs and dangle our feet and watch Ferris wheels at far away carnivals. We bought a rat together and called her our baby. He made a ring for me out of a dandelion and I kissed him in front of crashing waves and roaring crowds.
          Billy had perfect black abyss hair that I got lost in. It was tangled and in his eyes which were naturally onyx. His shoulders were frail as were his arms and legs. And he was tall. He’d always wear ripped and faded jeans with black shoes. A light-colored t-shirt underneath a black blazer, never buttoned. Sometimes he wore a hat, but mostly I snatched it and wore it instead.
          After two months of puppy-dog teenage love, I broke things off with Billy. I had college coming in the fall and my hands were already chained up enough with family and friends. I didn’t want to cry too much over a boy when the time came and I was forced to move two states over to live among pretty strangers and frilly dangers decorated as frat parties and cups of beer.
          Billy cried when I broke the grip of our hands. But I didn’t cry until I was driving down the barren highway with the sunset to my back and my big cherry sunglasses to hide my blue-river eyes.
          I may have lost a lover, but I knew I didn’t lose a soul mate.

Veronica had been my best friend since kindergarten. His name used to be Vince and he used to wear sweats and basketball jerseys to school. But in the eighth grade, I found photographs of him in makeup and wigs, dresses and bras. When I confronted him about it, tears broke free from his chestnut eyes and I kissed his forehead and he became Veronica from that day forth.
          My Veronica, my sister, my blood and my soul.
          He and I used to build tents in my basement with blankets and towels. We’d hoard flashlights and food into our forts and tell stories and secrets. In the glow of black-and-white romance films from France or Italy, we’d gorge on chocolates and cookies and cry because we wanted a love story like that. We were only twelve. And we didn’t know those movies were merely fiction.
          As we got older, Veronica got more involved in fashion and celebrity gossip (as I drifted more towards animal rights and politics). Veronica began wearing vicious pointed high heels and miniskirts with tight sweaters over stuffed bras. I painted his nails and curled his red hair.
          Veronica didn’t mind when I had to go away for school. He was staying behind and attending a community college. He’d tell me he was going to keep me posted on all the latest happenings in LA. He said he’d be on the look out for the perfect man for me and that he would take care of my broken and bandaged ex-lover-boy Billy.

My poison-red-lipstick and malicious-fishnet tramp Veronica did tend to and mend my broken and bandaged ex-lover-boy Billy. And my fishnet-tramp and my ex-lover-boy did kind of fall into something somewhat similar to love. And my Veronica and my Billy became a pair inseparable hands.

I opened my eyes and pulled myself to my feet. I looked at my graceful angel boys curled up into each other, half awake but mostly dreaming. I nudged Billy with my foot and his butterfly eyelashes twittered open.
          “It’s getting cold,” I said. “And it’s getting late.”
          By now, with the clocks having struck one, nobody but the homeless and drunk loveless wandered the streets.
          “We can get a place to stay,” mumbled Veronica as he eased his way up, smoothing out his skirt.
          We linked arms and skipped down the streets against the wind and into the darker alleys. Our ice skates jingling, making music, our voices quivering in the chill. Echoes beamed from skyscrapers to stoplights to our hearts. Ghosts of Christmas past swarming in our heads, but the only ghost we knew mattered,  was the spirit of that moment, the ghost of Christmas present, watching behind a one-way mirror with a scrooge, and maybe changing that scrooge forever with our radiant beauty.
          The fishnet tramp. The broken boy. And me.

Description
We slung our ice skates over our shoulders and I shoved my gloveless, loveless hands into the pockets of my sweater. Veronica and Billy walked next to me with their arms wrapped tightly around each other like pretty ribbons. Their love was enough to keep me warm on a windy black night such as this one.
          Nothing was open in Chicago this time of night. The mini city-that-never-sleeps definitely slept soundly underneath a blanket of pollution-white clouds. Front doors were locked, windows gated, lights dimmed and cashed tucked away for a long winter’s nap.
          The city glowed. It was a Christmas angel’s playground with snowcapped skyscrapers and tinseled skeleton trees. In store windows were pale and hushed mannequins waiting for streets to die so they could come alive and dance in the afterglow. Neon signs and icy sidewalks. Neon and ice. Neon ice.
          We slid down those sidewalks. I slipped on the ice. Blood trickled down my knee, staining my white tights pink. Veronica helped me up and he dusted me off. Billy giggled, watching me flinch as Veronica’s hand brushed against my torn knee. I balled a soft clump of snow in my hand and aimed for Billy’s head. He ducked. But because I had such terrible aim it hit him in the shoulder anyway.
          Billy lunged himself at me and Veronica tackled him and I bit somebody’s arm and we rolled around in the middle of the glistening Jack Frost-kissed sidewalk at twelve AM. on a Saturday night. Ice skates went flying everywhere and crashing to the ground. Mittens came off and screams of joy tinted the air. Sophisticated people in their late-night apparel heading into or out of hundred-dollar hotels, shaking their heads, their stilettos tapping and tux tails dragging along.
          Breathlessly, we laid sprawled out on the frozen ground. We looked up at the sky and tried to see in between the clouds, but the only stars that were out that night were the yellow and white reflections from cars and streetlights and 24-hour businesses glaring off of the towering buildings. Those stars were good enough for me.
          A taxi sped past and I wished on it like a shooting star.
          Veronica shivered in his miniskirt and goose bumps formed up and down his thighs. Billy ran his hand down Veronica’s leg and I closed my eyes.

Billy and Veronica met each other through me.

Billy used to be my boyfriend and during the sweltering hot days we’d rollerblade down LA boulevards while licking each other’s ice cream cones. At night, we’d sit on car roofs and dangle our feet and watch Ferris wheels at far away carnivals. We bought a rat together and called her our baby. He made a ring for me out of a dandelion and I kissed him in front of crashing waves and roaring crowds.
          Billy had perfect black abyss hair that I got lost in. It was tangled and in his eyes which were naturally onyx. His shoulders were frail as were his arms and legs. And he was tall. He’d always wear ripped and faded jeans with black shoes. A light-colored t-shirt underneath a black blazer, never buttoned. Sometimes he wore a hat, but mostly I snatched it and wore it instead.
          After two months of puppy-dog teenage love, I broke things off with Billy. I had college coming in the fall and my hands were already chained up enough with family and friends. I didn’t want to cry too much over a boy when the time came and I was forced to move two states over to live among pretty strangers and frilly dangers decorated as frat parties and cups of beer.
          Billy cried when I broke the grip of our hands. But I didn’t cry until I was driving down the barren highway with the sunset to my back and my big cherry sunglasses to hide my blue-river eyes.
          I may have lost a lover, but I knew I didn’t lose a soul mate.

Veronica had been my best friend since kindergarten. His name used to be Vince and he used to wear sweats and basketball jerseys to school. But in the eighth grade, I found photographs of him in makeup and wigs, dresses and bras. When I confronted him about it, tears broke free from his chestnut eyes and I kissed his forehead and he became Veronica from that day forth.
          My Veronica, my sister, my blood and my soul.
          He and I used to build tents in my basement with blankets and towels. We’d hoard flashlights and food into our forts and tell stories and secrets. In the glow of black-and-white romance films from France or Italy, we’d gorge on chocolates and cookies and cry because we wanted a love story like that. We were only twelve. And we didn’t know those movies were merely fiction.
          As we got older, Veronica got more involved in fashion and celebrity gossip (as I drifted more towards animal rights and politics). Veronica began wearing vicious pointed high heels and miniskirts with tight sweaters over stuffed bras. I painted his nails and curled his red hair.
          Veronica didn’t mind when I had to go away for school. He was staying behind and attending a community college. He’d tell me he was going to keep me posted on all the latest happenings in LA. He said he’d be on the look out for the perfect man for me and that he would take care of my broken and bandaged ex-lover-boy Billy.

My poison-red-lipstick and malicious-fishnet tramp Veronica did tend to and mend my broken and bandaged ex-lover-boy Billy. And my fishnet-tramp and my ex-lover-boy did kind of fall into something somewhat similar to love. And my Veronica and my Billy became a pair inseparable hands.

I opened my eyes and pulled myself to my feet. I looked at my graceful angel boys curled up into each other, half awake but mostly dreaming. I nudged Billy with my foot and his butterfly eyelashes twittered open.
          “It’s getting cold,” I said. “And it’s getting late.”
          By now, with the clocks having struck one, nobody but the homeless and drunk loveless wandered the streets.
          “We can get a place to stay,” mumbled Veronica as he eased his way up, smoothing out his skirt.
          We linked arms and skipped down the streets against the wind and into the darker alleys. Our ice skates jingling, making music, our voices quivering in the chill. Echoes beamed from skyscrapers to stoplights to our hearts. Ghosts of Christmas past swarming in our heads, but the only ghost we knew mattered,  was the spirit of that moment, the ghost of Christmas present, watching behind a one-way mirror with a scrooge, and maybe changing that scrooge forever with our radiant beauty.
          The fishnet tramp. The broken boy. And me.