Exchanging Tragedy

For Christmas, we exchange tragedies.

     One dead wife, one runaway wife (mine), firings, a broken leg, credit card delinquencies.

     We speak over each other, stories crashing like freight trains.

     Only when we drink Merlot, do we listen. Shake our heads, utter a few fuck mans. A couple times, we pause. Try to convey sorrow, offer hope.

     But hope is a long-rotten tooth.

     I tell a joke about Santa’s wife fucking an elf while listening to Tchaikovsky.

     Everyone laughs. Cue another. This time Santa gets served on their five-hundredth wedding anniversary.

     The laughter’s harsh. But we’re laughing, listening, while day rots.