Their small apartment is decorated to the hilt with every Christmas-themed thing that Imogen could find over the past month. Garlands decorated any available surface; their cookie jar had been swapped out for a smiling snowman whose hat detached; poinsettias littered the corners of rooms; and in the middle of it all stood a scrawny looking fir.
Imogen had fallen in love with it on their trip to the Christmas tree farm, and nothing Fiona said could deter her. Despite her girlfriend pointing out a variety of other trees that didn't look quite so sickly or reminiscent of Charlie Brown's Christmas, Imogen had her heart set on it. So Fiona sucked it up, paid the $25 for it, and loaded it onto the top of their beat-up Jeep, the only car that they could afford on their meager salaries.
Once they had it set up in the corner of their living room, Imogen had thrown herself headlong into draping white lights over the branches and strategically placing ornaments where there were bare patches in the branches. Even Fiona had to admit, it was looking pretty good.
As she leaned on their counter top, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her left hand and a chocolate Santa in the other (it was Christmas. A time to be merry and ignore calories for a week or two), Fiona couldn't help but admire the look of concentration on Imogen's face. How her eyebrows were furrowed and her tongue was peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she studied a purple and white ornament in the shape of a top and considered where to put it next. Eventually she placed it near the bottom, then stepped back to admire her job.
Fiona set down her mug and stepped around their breakfast bar, crossing the living room in a few steps. She wrapped her arms around Imogen's waist from behind and nestled her chin on her girlfriend's shoulders, grinning when Imogen automatically leaned back into her embrace. "You do know that George is going to go after those ornaments on the bottom, right? He might even try to eat them," she said, referencing their orange tabby cat. Fiona often joked that George looked like he had eaten an entire other cat due to his dramatic weight. Imogen would gasp in horror and cover George's ears (he was never far from Imogen, who was his favorite. He regarded Fiona with indifference, despite her best attempts to get him to engage with her), hissing to Fiona that she was going to give him a complex and to not be so mean to him, he was just big boned.
"He won't try to eat them, Fions. So what if he's a little curious? It's healthy for him to have an active interest in things at his age," Imogen replied. Fiona rolled her eyes at yet another topic of her wisecracks concerning George: his advanced age. Not only was the cat ten pounds overweight, he had been sixteen years old when they adopted him and now, two years later, showed no signs of wear and tear yet. The thing was probably going to end up outliving them, she often grumbled as she woke up with him sitting on her chest and staring her down for the hundreth time.
Fiona released Imogen's waist and spun her around so they were facing each other. Leaning in so that she could rub their noses together and then kiss the tip of Imogen's nose, she sighed. "Can you believe that we have this all, Immy? This apartment, a cat, our own Christmas tree. It seems like yesterday we were kissing on top of that Ferris wheel at the Frostival, and here we are, six years later, all grown up and doing adult-y things."
Imogen brought Fiona's hand up so it was in view of both of them and tapped the ring on her left hand. "Don't forget getting married. That's a pretty adult-y thing to do." Fiona nodded in agreement, her wide smile mirroring the one on her fiancee's face.
"Especially that. Best early Christmas present ever." She leaned in and kissed Imogen, long and soft and slow, and they were only broken apart by a tinkling and then a shattering of glass. Imogen pulled away, looking disappointed and slightly guilty, already knowing what had just transpired. "You're cleaning it up," Fiona called over her shoulder, having turned to head back to the kitchen and pick up her rapidly cooling hot chocolate.
"Oh, George," Imogen muttered, going to find a dust pan to sweep up the broken ornament that littered the floor next to the smug-looking cat.