"So you made him a new one."
"I took a carving class. At the community center on Wellesley. Tuesday nights, with nine retired men and a woman who only carves owls." I opened my hand and looked at the box. "It took me eleven months. I ruined six of them. The first one looked like a seahorse. The third one looked like Elvis."
He laughed, a short surprised sound. "I'd like to see the Elvis one."
"It's on my windowsill. It's the best thing I've ever made, honestly, it's just not a horse."
"And you're giving it to him for Christmas."
"That's the plan." I put the box in my zipper pocket, and zipped it, and patted it. "I haven't been home for Christmas in three years. My mother doesn't know I'm coming. I'm not sure I'm coming. I was sort of planning to drive over on Christmas Eve and sit in my car at the end of the driveway and then decide."
"That's a terrible plan."
"I know it's a terrible plan."
"I mean it's very cold, is my point. You'd want a blanket." He tipped the last pretzel bite into his mouth and folded the paper cup in half, and then in half again, neatly, and put it in his jacket pocket instead of throwing it on the floor, which I noticed. "What happened three years ago? You don't have to say."
"I said something unforgivable to him," I said. "At my dad's sixty-fifth birthday. In front of everybody."
"What did you say?"
I looked at him. I had known him for eleven minutes. "You're very nosy for someone I just met."
"I'm a respiratory therapist," he said. "I spend all night asking people things they don't want to answer. How many cigarettes. How many stairs before you get winded. Do you have a do-not-resuscitate order. I've lost the knack of small talk. I apologize. We can talk about the weather. It's very cold."