She of the Mountains Read Online Free PDF Page A

was you, my beloved. It was life.

The office needs a Christmas tree , she announced.
    The declaration came as a surprise to him because they had talked about how her family didn’t celebrate Christmas and about her acute preference for all-inclusive holiday greetings at this time of the year. That he was one of the only staff members in the office when she made the announcement convinced him that this tree project was just an excuse for them to spend more time together, so he quickly volunteered to assist.
    Maybe because this was something he had only ever done with his family, or because he was so particular about the tradition, but he felt there was something intimate about putting up a tree together—the careful winding of the screws at the base so the tree itself stood centred and the precise placement and distribution of the decorations to ensure that the lights were visible but the garbage-bag-green wires concealed. Thankfully, he had brought his copy of Christina Aguilera’s My Kind of Christmas . Gleefully listening to her vocals, somersaulting higher and faster, reduced any tension between them.
    They backed away from the small artificial tree, now lit and tinselled.
    We did it!
    It’s so beautiful.
    It really is.
    His arm extended itself around her shoulder. She responded by putting her arms around his waist, and in this sideways embrace, they began to sway to the music. His body gradually turned in to face hers, their bodies clasping each other, growing into each other to form another tree. Limbs for branches, adrenaline for lights. They said nothing.
    At the office holiday party, the memory of their special afternoon helped keep his jealousy at bay as he watched her boyfriend dote on her and, later that night, dance with her. After what felt like a respectful amount of time had passed, he asked her for the next dance. She accepted with a curt okay , as though she was doing him a favour, as though he was a worker asking his boss to dance at a holiday party. He responded by keeping as much distance between them as he could within the constraints of a slow dance. He didn’t pull her close, and she didn’t make eye contact. But he made her laugh by imitating his co-workers’ clunky dance moves.
    After their dance, they gave each other a forced smile, and he politely said Thank you.
    She walked back to the table where her boyfriend was sitting. Morty looked at her curiously, as though he was seeing something he’d never noticed before.
    You know, if he wasn’t gay, I would be really jealous right now.



The first time she put her hand on his bare chest, he winced. And the second time.
    They were under her desk, lit by the sparse glow of the computer screen above. Her playlist was on shuffle and by now had run its cycle at least three times. He wasn’t paying close attention to the songs themselves, but each repeated song signalled the progression of a night he didn’t want to end, even though his eyes were tightly closed and his legs trembling.
    She had been slowly working at taking off his shirt, kissing the back of his neck as she rolled up the light blue fabric, and had finally succeeded. He felt as though all of his bones, his entire rib cage, were exposed.
    After high school, his clothing had become a second layer of skin, a necessary fabric that protected his body from other bodies, a layer he removed only to change or shower or at the dreaded annual check-up with his doctor. But lying beside her, he drew courage from her body, her presence in every part of it. She did not possess the awkwardness he had witnessed in others, the uncertainty of their steps or the teenage stumbling that surfaced when they were faced with the inconvenient or unexpected. There was no apparent divide between who she was and her expressions, gestures, and movements; everything synced together in a gorgeous rhythm, like the perfect score to a perfect moment in a perfect film. Even her thoughts