I have a Christmas list as long as my arm. When I take my arm off, I set it on the mantle of the fireplace, so it doesn’t get singed. I like the way the fire talks, in staccato, interrupting its own syllables. The armchair is a house of its own self. My slippers on the bear-skin rug, that black-gummed-mouth wide open, eyeless. A book with a golden tassel, hardcover. Glass of red wine, my stained lips. My wife. She has a Christmas list as long as her lips. She places her lips on the mantle, so they don’t get burned. I smoke cigarette after cigarette, a hundred cigarettes, and throw their cuticles in the fire. The fire snaps. The fire apologizes, turns blue. I look at my wife, and see she has placed herself on the mantle, so she doesn’t get burned. She lies there on the wooden mantle, holding my arm and her lips. She mumbles mouthlessly while I smoke and read. She falls asleep as I lay the golden tassel into the third chapter and close the book. She snores while I take off my smoking jacket, this maroon thing, and fold it into a triangle and lay it gently in the fire. The fire talks mouthlessly. My jacket turns into smoke. The room fills with smoke. The smoke detector cries out. I stare at the bear’s gaping mouth. I climb inside.