“Dude.  What are you doing?”

I glance up at Nick, one hip cocked and wrinkling his brow in curiosity.  He’s taking in the craft materials scattered across the kitchen table – fabric swatches of different patterns and textures, piping and ribbon, white glue, glitter.  I have a scissors in my hand, trimming a miniature stovepipe hat out of black felt.  “I’m making something,” I say in bumbling evasion, willing him out of the kitchen.  Leave me alone, leave me alone…

“You’re making a…snowman?”  Before I can block him, he reaches down and snatches my fabric-and-tagboard creation.  It falls open on ribboned hinges, revealing a blank interior.  “What is this?  A Christmas card?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“It’s not Christmas anymore.”

“I know that.”

“So…why are you making a Christmas card?”

“Well, I wanted to give you a Christmas card all along.  Because the only Christmas card you got was from Phoebe, and it was basically a form letter from her company.  But then my life kind of fell apart and I got distracted and forgot about it.  Until today, when I saw Wal-Mart had Christmas cards on clearance.  I couldn’t find any I liked, so I’m making you one instead.”

“I thought Muslims didn’t celebrate Christmas.”

“Right.  It’s a Christian thing.  But I think it’s okay if I give you a Christmas card.”  I snatch the card back.  “Now you have to pretend you didn’t see this, so I can finish it.”

“Nooshball,” Nick laughs, rolling his eyes for dramatic effect.  He strides into the living room and flops on the couch.  The TV clicks to life.

I focus on finishing the snowman card.  It lies open on the kitchen table, splayed into six joined circles of white tagboard.  I stare at the interior blankness.  What do I write?

Suddenly I’m not even sure about Merry Christmas anymore.  Do atheists believe in Christmas?  I should’ve asked Nick if he does.  Oh well.  I’ll just stick to something safe, like Season’s Greetings and Happy New Year.

I scribble out the words in a gold glitter pen, but when I’m done they sit there like cold impersonal things.  I need to close with something touching and appreciative.

I try a few different sentiments, writing them invisibly with my fingernail.  Nothing seems right. Sincerely yours, Nooshin sounds like a business letter, and Warmest regards, Nooshin isn’t much better.  Always yours, Nooshin makes me sound like I’m stalking him to the grave.  And Love, Nooshin or combinations of my name and big loopy hearts are even worse, the perfect way to send a guy like Nick fleeing.  But Your friend, Nooshin isn’t right either, because maybe, just maybe, we can be more than friends someday.

I wish I’d been allowed to date before I got married.  If I had some experience trading notes with boys, I’d probably know exactly what to write.

Resigned to getting it wrong no matter what I do, I pick up the glitter pen and write Thanks for being my buddy, Nooshin.

At least I’m pleased with the outside.  The tagboard snowman turned out cute – black felt stovepipe hat, plaid shred of a scarf, orphaned buttons trickling down his front.  My voice tries to run away when I go into the living room and offer the card to Nick.  “Here.  I made you something for Christmas.  Better late than never, I hope.”

He admires the card long enough to make me blush.  “Wow.  This is really cool.  I especially like the way you did his arms like they’re twigs – that’s pipe cleaner, right?”  Then he flips it open, the snowman pivoting on velvet ribbon bindings.  A smirk twists his handsome face.  “I’m your buddy, huh?”

I try to reach down and close the card.  “You can look at the outside some more if you want.”

“Oh no.  I think I’m going to read the inside again.  Because I’m your ‘buddy’.”  He says it making little quotation marks with his fingers, laughing at me.

“Nick…”

“Your best bud?  Or just one buddy among many?”

“At least I didn’t call you my bro or dawg or something.”  Now he’s got me giggling too.  “Seriously, what was I supposed to call you?”

The labeling dilemma plunges him into silence.  The obvious answer – we’re friends, nothing more and nothing less – doesn’t escape his pursed lips.  Eventually he considers my card again, a scrutiny with emotions vying beneath it.  My heart begins to soar – he’s going to say something truthful and maybe even romantic, I just know it! – but then Nick retreats behind that evasive and lopsided grin.  “Just don’t call me late for dinner.”