Z is never alone, not with his collective hive mind

that keeps moving, moving towards getting to know

more people. Even on a sexless Christmas, where

I played the yuletide eunuch and sulked, he was still

the light of the living dead. He gifted you a stop watch

just to see how fast you could get away from him.

The gold cracker you shared split and sent silly string

over the gherkin jar. Z laughed so hard that it tipped

over and sent briney green all over your cherry red

Christmas slip. He apologised and went and ate the dog.

‘The life of the party' both was and wasn't appropriate.

Older relatives whispered into mistletoe napkins and

asked if he was all there. He has more brains than Einstein,

but they're all in storage and the cells are dead, the synapses

out of range. It doesn't make for great holiday conversation,

and the game of charades was unforgivingly slow, but there

were certainly no left-overs come boxing day, the turkey

nothing but dry bones, a grave reminder of more fun.