“How cute,” Claire grinned, “The dog’s name was Soldier.”

“I like to imagine that this was taken by a newspaper photographer who happened to have an extra picture left over on his roll of film. He saw this kid playing with his dog and snapped photo,” I said, offering up my imagination.

“And,” Claire followed along, “He somehow felt attached to this image and kept it in his wallet for inspiration.”

We looked at each other simotaneously, with looks that silently said, not likely. We kept playing with the photos, imagining to ourselves the fantastic live the people in them must have led. The Christmas music ended, and right away, started over again.

She has it on repeat, I thought to myself, disgusted.

“Claire,” I began, “You really need to turn that happy jolly, ‘tis the season shit off before I have an aneurism.”

She glared at me, behind sleepy eyes and knew that I better keep quiet. When Claire was in the mood for something, there was no cause to argue with her.