Alexander: My mother is constantly one glass of Prosecco away from buying seventeen cats.
family
Cecily, a Christmas story.
Cecily: I wanted a toy unicorn. I had an inside joke about one with my lover Yves, and I wanted to give the unicorn to him for Christmas. I announced my desire to find one rather publicly. Jonathan loved me so much he haunted every shop in Paris on Christmas Eve to find me that unicorn. He didn’t know why I wanted it, just that he could give me something I wanted, and that he could make me smile.
He found that unicorn and bought it for me for Christmas. It showed up under my tree all glittering and shining via beautiful guilt-laced adoration. And now I have it. And it was always intended for Yves.
Two friends, on being home for Christmas.
Cecily: How’s the family?
Alexander: I had lunch with my father. The first twenty minutes was spent awkwardly playing with condensation on the table in silence.
Delilah, to Cecily.
Delilah: So, brother, I’ve been shook the fuck up. You must be Jesus, the devil, or some kind of prescient energy force that transcends the need for physical form but comes to humans in the form of a slightly manic, dry-witted succubus.
Two friends, on dependence.
Maurice: Apparently Raj is an essential part of your life.
Cecily: I need a lot of people around me for this existence to be viable.
Two sisters, on genetics.
Cecily: One wonders how our parents, being who they are, created us.
Delilah: Well, what would you retrospectively expect? A russian count and a coquettish haberdasher? If you pay any mind to matters of the completely random you’ll go inaccessibly insane before your prospective memoir publishers have time to commence their battle royale.
Cecily, on cats and babies.
Cecily: I am going to name my child Soba… or my cat. Neither exist, and maybe I’m condemning these foetal beings, still in their ideational infancy, to gluten-free, Japanese-centric lives. But, I’m cool with that. I like names with two syllables. I like names that can be pronounced in any language, and ones that go well on a Starbucks’ cup. When I take my cat or child to Starbucks, they’ll order their soy latté grandés without the extra stress of having to invent an alias.
My second born shall be Millefeuille.
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