There’s a spider in the wine glass by the sink. I won’t go anywhere near it. I’ll drink straight from the bottle instead and save on the washing up. She’s upstairs, sleeping. She has work in the morning and went to bed early. It’s snowing. Not heavy or anything, but there’s magic in the air for sure. In this little globe of ours, we don’t have much, but we have each other, and as the snowflakes fall upon my outstretched hands standing as I am on the doorstep, I know I have to go to her. Stumbling upstairs like the drunk I am, I excitedly wake her the same way a child wakes his parents on Christmas Day, wishing to open his presents as soon as humanely possible. When she opens those sad, panda eyes of hers, I glimpse evil. It stops me dead in my tracks. The hate in her gaze at having her sleep disturbed reflects the disdain she saves for her own reflection. It scares me shitless, but then, when I wrap my fingers around her neck and plant a kiss on her forehead, her rage melts like the snow against the windowpane. I’m not her saviour, but I believe that kindness is the gateway to all that is great. Cradling her in my arms, she links her hands behind my head and I gingerly descend the stairs with her breathing heavy against my chest. As the snow meets us in the doorway, the tears from our eyes shine like the hidden stars in the sky that are someone’s else’s suns, and there we remain, speaking in silence for the rest of the night.