Un freakin believable. Almost six months past, almost six to go, and he wakes up a little sweaty in the middle of June with White Christmas; walks into his office and looks out, fully expecting treetops to glisten; listens, incredibly, for sleigh bells. This is how it is for him. This is the inescapable Christmas card, arriving late, and all the way to work he’ll be wishing he were merry or bright or both.
Sometimes, like weekdays and weekends, he gets stuck with Over The Rainbow in the shower; doesn’t like to sing along too loudly, but he can’t usually help himself; the melody tasty as lemon drops. Once in a while he gets lucky with Yesterday instead, and all his troubles seem so distant, at least for a moment. Still, he can’t really seem to say why she had to go, and she surely hadn’t said before she left. In any event, he’s left with the almost certain knowledge that he’s said something wrong.
He’s pretty sure it's got nothing to do with his music, though.