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I've been challenged to write a story. The rules are:

1. 1-1000 words
2. must include a dog
3. due December 24


Sylvie swallowed the last too-sweet drop of her tea and set the mug down on the dining table. She stared out the window that was surrounded by bright yellow, cottage cheese-textured walls. Across the driveway, she could see Edith and Joe Kettleman scooping snow off their walk. It would have been nice, to have married. To have someone to shovel snow with when she retired. Not some old guy she could meet now, but someone she knew since college. Someone who she'd fought with and had children with. Like the Kettlemans. Maybe like Nick. What was he up to now? Married with a family no doubt. Happy...he always was. She smiled and wondered if he ever thought of her.

Sylvie took her cup to the kitchen. If she'd married, there might be dishes in the sink. Someone else's dishes. Maybe the spices wouldn't be perfectly arranged in alphabetical order in the cupboards above the counter. Maybe the pickles would be on the top shelf where she had to climb her footstool to get them. Maybe she would wish she could just stay home and eat a scrambled egg for dinner and drink tea and read her book and have no obligations to anyone. She turned off the tap and carefully dried the mug and put it back into the cupboard. First shelf, right-hand side.

"Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made it out of clay, dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of..." someone was singing outside, loud. But there were lots of transients in these parts and she was used to hearing oddities.

Sylvie hummed along as she pulled the trash out from under the sink and tied the top of the white plastic bag in a slip knot. She had a book home from the library about knot-tying and it amused her to practice while effeciently performing another task.

She slipped on her trenchcoat, buttoning it up all the way to the neck, then stepped into her rubber boots. Outside, the sun was sinking and turning the snow on the ground a delicious pink. Peppermint, she thought, and wondered how pink was first associated with the herb. She unlocked the trash gate and threw the heavy bag in. "Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel sang the man on the bench. Without thinking, Sylvie began to harmonize with the silly tune. The man turned to look at her. He had a long dirty beard and was wearing what appeared to be a very tattered Santa suit. He stopped singing mid-word, as did she. Behind the grey facial forest, his eyes looked kind. No. Familiar. She gave a tight smile and nod to the man and the Italian greyhound at his feet and headed back to the front door.

"Drei..." the man started again and Sylvie was, for a moment, 19. She was in Nick's mother's living room They were moving furniture here and there to make the Christmas tree fit. Someone had sent a greeting card and every time it was opened, it sang "dreidel, dreidel, dreidel...." That might have been the first time she'd heard the song. Nick was dancing around the room to the tune like a River Dancer on speed. Sylvie was surprised to feel a faint jab of pain still with her, as she remembered watching and thinking, I'll never be that fun. I'll never let go. I'll always be stuck inside this cell, surrounded by walls of self-consciousness.

Suddenly Santa stood up, he started to jump and fling his feet around around as he sang the dreidel song. His dog began to bark. And then she knew. Now or never. With hot tears flowing down her frozen cheeks, she straighted her arms at her side, and awkwardly began to jump and flail along with the man in the santa suit. She sang loud and off key. 3, 4 rounds of the song and she was winded. The man stopped. He looked at her with those kind, no, familiar, eyes and Sylvie, in her perfectly ironed trenchcoat, leaned her clean forehead up against the dirty chest of the tattered, matted red Santa suit.