Down to the buzzer.

A too-quiet day for us both, bouncing from thing to thing, keeping the TV on a loop for company, and if I know either of us, we're both in our heads just a little. She comes in to ask if I'm interested in dinner and I ask if I might watch the game with her later. She leaves to run an errand and I wash the dishes that've collected in here over the past day or two. When she returns, we talk for a few moments and for maybe the first time, I really look into her eyes. What I see there are the same contours and colorings and sadness I see in his, the stress and well-meaning and love that radiates not always with a logical course for expression. Later, we have pizza and split a single-serving of wine and for an hour, talk about emotional responses to media, talk about memoirs, talk about our (what once would've been thought) interfaith parentage, about how fathers respond to boyfriends, how parents respond to relationships in general. She complimented my crazy hair. We made each other laugh.

While she wraps up the pizza, I keep her company, bringing in the dishes before bringing in my camera to take an emergency blip of the Christmas tree, on which are so many ornaments I recognize, so many I've hung on my own family's tree, year after year. I've avoided Christmas tree blips out of some unrealized wish for clearer inspiration, but I focus on the colors and lights and think maybe. Maybe.

I'm still not satisfied with any of the possible shots I've taken, but suddenly, we realize the game began at 7pm, not 8pm--oops. I give up on the tree, curl up with this little guy. She makes coffee and we share lemon cookies and so we begin at halftime, and hope.

May the bond last.