My pile is monotonously typical, cellular phone bill, ads for credit cards, Christmas cards from work, and a magazine. I tear up the credit card promotions and stab the little plastic straw into the tiny, tinny opening in my mountain berry splash juice. One of the cards catches my eye, it’s much bigger than the others and instead of a formal “Miss Carmen De La Pica-Morales” it simply says “C” and gives my address. Only one person calls me C and that’s Shane.  I tear the pale, white envelope open eagerly and gaze upon the card, sliding my thumb in between the halves while I study the picture. It’s a black and white Christmas tree and at the top is a bright yellow star, totally standing out in the tastefully photo-manipulated card. I open it and read the printed message.

“You’re my star this Christmas.”

Love,

Shane McCutcheon.

Her handwriting is slanted and rigid like a boy’s and I smile at her message, not bothering to open the rest of the cards. Instead, I tuck the card and the rest of my pile under my arm and backpedal until I’m walking up our rickety wooden steps and heading toward the door at the far end of the hall to my right. I knock twice, just to make sure no one is using the bathroom and open it to find it dark and chilly. I flick on the lights and catch myself in the mirror over the sink. My hair is slicked with sweat along the temples and my face looks oily. Oh yeah, definitely time for a shower. The floral curtain is inviting and I push it aside to see tiny plastic ships and a rubber duck suctioned to the basin of the tub. Manny strikes again. I pick these things up; toss them into the basket next to the tub before completely stripping down and getting in.

The warm water is like food to a dying man; totally appreciated. I wash my hair twice and reach for my loofah sponge. Before I get the chance to I hear a familiar polyphonic reggae beat and open the curtain once more. My pants are ringing and I reach down to pick them up, making them soggy by touching them and extracting the thin, silver Motorola from the back pocket of the slacks. “SHANE CASA” blares at me against the digital screen and I split the two pieces.