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Every Christmas Eve, Mama and I baked Snickerdoodles and mint chocolate chip cookies, ideally for Mr. Santa Claus. When I could no longer wear my bedazzled jeans, I had to wear that constraining chest holder called a brassiere, and I saw blurry orbs and couldn't see the white board, I learned the truth that Mr. Santa Claus was a real person and his spirit lived on through the tradition of my grandparents giving me gifts. I then redirected my purpose behind these magnificent cookies. I didn't bake these delights for a dead Saint Nicholas. No, I created these small edibles for Mama and Papa.

The mint chocolate chips soothed Papa's stomach. Whenever we baked his cookies, we did two batches or more. Then mysteriously, all twenty-four or more cookies disappeared from the ceramic owl cookie jar.

Mama and I chuckled. Certain days, Mama would've pinched Papa on the shoulder, shouting, "Go back to work! I can't keep up with your late-night snacks – my arm is going to fall off soon from stirring the dough!"

Mama enjoyed the cinnamon and spices spiraled on her tongue. She puckered her lips, and then sucked in her cheeks making a "oh" shape. Her dark brown eyes stared at me, the tension light-hearted and praise.

"This'll be the best batch!" Mama said. "Try a taste – don't worry, you won't get Salmonella."

Mama and I fought over the wooden spoon and Tupperware cream bowl. Each creation, we switched objects. First I would eat the cookie dough remnants from the bowl and Mama cleaned the spoon. Next Mama had the bowl and vise versa. This ritual continued, even when I stayed up reading the Therapeutics of Pain lecture slides, remembering patients' and co-workers' information, and finished midnight shifts.

However, this Christmas Eve, I sprawled out on the ground. I sat in the middle of an ingredient aisle contemplating over substitutions. I completed my third ten-hour shift in a row. My mind tried to recall what I had at home. My cabinets were bare, except rice crispy cereal, canned fancy cat food, and bread. No ingredients to create Snickerdoodles and mint chocolate chip cookies. Other fellow bakers cleared the shelves, I saw more dust on the holey shelves than product.

The small market store, that also was a gas station, called Stop N' Go was the only place open. The main grocery stores closed at eight or earlier since it was a holiday.

Brown and white sugar were gone. Powdered sugar disappeared too!

Two off-brand cinnamon spices sat in the $2.99 vanilla extract spot, instead of their ideal spots that were marked by the store's yellow stickers.

My eyes swelled. My sniffles caused the late workers to glance down the aisle and walk the other way.

There was nothing. I refused to substitute sugar with anything else. I was not doing that stevia crap. Oh my gosh - where was the flour?!

From the ground, I reached up to the third shelf. All the way in the back, a rectangular package taunted me. I wiped my nose and then reached as far as I could. My short arm couldn't grab the package. I scooted closer on my knees and my armpit hit the shelf as I stretched my arm.

My fingertips grazed the paper package. I couldn't reach it. Tongue sticking out, I huffed as if making a noise could make me grab the flour easier.

My overgrown French manicure nails touched the package. However, my fingers couldn't grip it. A quick hot pain ran in my forearm. Cursing, I brought my arm out of the shelf.

I couldn't even purchase flour because it's up against the wall.

I turned around and leaned against the shelves. My neck hit the annoying curve of the ledge, and I stretched out my legs. Dust clumped on the back of my jeans and torso area. My wrinkled jacket was drenched and unbuttoned. There was salt powder etched around my sleeves. Black ice and snow had been forecast for this lovely Eve. Instead, freezing rain and borderline cold temperatures greeted the Tri-State.

My wet wavy hair stuck closer to my roots. I appeared thinner and unhygienic, the tips of my hair curled and stuck to my neck. I'm sorry, Mama. I closed my eyes. Biting down on my lip, I would not cry. No. I won't cry.

There was absolutely nothing wrong.

So what if I didn't have the ingredients to create those delicious cookies? They were small things. Unimportant.

I held my breath.

My throat constricted. My lungs screamed to release. Holding back the desired breath, my chest shook. My cheek muscles clenched. Fine. I gave in.

I released the long-desired breath. The pain subsided for a millisecond and then a deep pull requested me to cry. My breath quickened. I should have gotten the materials earlier, before my three work days. I should have prepared for this week.

Then I wouldn't be in this mess. Instead of purchasing those items, I stayed in my apartment to re-watch French Kiss with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline. I quoted the lines back to the characters as if I was a part of their lives. I decided on doing that.

I should have dragged myself out of the apartment and into the dark, icy night.

The tears came. I wept. Over materials. Over all the cinnamon spices, chocolate chips, flour, and whatever else that was leftover in the aisle.

This is stupid.

Wiping the tears away, I used my rough salty sleeves. Stinging in and around my eyes, I sniffled and took a deep breath in. This limitless pull wanted me to stay in this uncomfortable and uncontrollable environment.

It's freakin' cookies for crying out loud. Insignificant.

Licking my lips, I reached for my cell phone that was left in my coat pocket. I needed to call someone. Someone who would be awake at eleven at night on Christmas Eve, wrapping presents probably.

Papa fell asleep at eight p.m. He turned his phone off, which I lectured him. "What if I need to get ahold of you?"

"You wouldn't," Papa responded.

"Why do you say that? Can you predict the future?"

"If it's an emergency, you'll call Mary. You know how she is. Mr. McKenzie, your daughter called. Mr. McKenzie, your mailbox is full – yeah, my Shadow will help you."

Mary was Papa's caregiver at the senior apartments. She checked on him, and Mary texted me on where he attended and what he completed. As if, she was a babysitter and shadow.

I dismissed the idea of calling her.

No, I needed extra help. This person judged me but in a friendly way. She knew my motivations and weaknesses. I needed someone to talk to. Clicking on my contact list, I pushed "call."

After the second ring, there was an answer.

"I'll kill you if you woke up Monica."

The pressure lifted off from my mind, lungs, and shoulders. I laughed and wiped the remaining tears.

"Hello to you, too, Lydia."

"I'm being serious. Monica finally fell asleep watching White Christmas. She told me she would stay up all night to see if this Santa Claus was the real deal or not."

Lydia's deep voice was mellow. Her enunciation tickled me.

"A four-year-old who keeps her priorities straight better than me. Go, Monica!"

Lydia sh'ed.

I placed my hand over my mouth. At this point, I couldn't help but laugh.

"You think I was lying when I told you I kill you?" Lydia asked, teasing some more, "I have to finish wrapping ten presents before she wakes up tomorrow."

I heard rustling in the background and thumping. Lydia might have moved into another room away from the sleepy Monica.

"One of them was a Barbie mansion. Thank God, I found a deal online because," Lydia said, "I would have had to put in a loan."

I continued to smile. This distraction made me focus on my best friend's voice and humor. I thanked God everyday I had a strong, intertwined relationship with Lydia.

Lydia who walked up to me on the first day of general history class in college. She smiled and greeted me. An eighteen-year-old who grew up in a small town and stared with wide eyes at the vastness of the classrooms – auditorium – at the University of Cincinnati. I blended in the crowd and yet Lydia sprinted over, well because she arrived late to class. Lydia sat right next to me, not the usual two seats apart leaving enough for personal space.

Lydia shared and included me in events and information about other classmates, not true gossip but personal. Lydia held my hand when I vomited in the trash can. Where I thought I wouldn't survive being sick during class. Lydia brought peppermint patties to class, not for her because she hated dark chocolate, but for me. Lydia reached out even when both of us were busy; we studied together though Lydia was on the technical engineer path and I studied medicine and paramedics.

Lydia called and cried over the phone when her boyfriend dumped her because she was ten weeks pregnant.

"I'm sure you didn't call to know what I bought Monica for Christmas," Lydia said, "What's on your mind, Sugar?"

My heart raced.

I wanted to listen, not talk about what was going on in my mind.

"I wanted to check on you. Work's been keeping me busy. Are we still on for tomorrow?"

Lydia chuckled. "Of course, we'll meet later in the evening - we're meeting Grandma and Grandpa in the morning."

I nodded."Good. I wanted to make sure."

I flinched when I heard screeching of tape in my ear. Rustling of paper followed shortly after. Lydia must have had put me on speaker.

What do I say? I'm having anxiety over the fact I can't bake cookies? That's idiotic and childish.

"I'm waiting."

I blinked. "Waiting for what?"

Lydia continued wrapping gifts.

"Stupid tape – why do I have double sided tape?" Lydia spoke to herself, "I'm waiting for you to talk."

"About what?"

"Whatever is on your mind," Lydia declared, "I know your habits, Sugar. You don't call me late at night just to make sure if I'm following through on our plans."

I sometimes disliked how much Lydia knew me. Lydia's words brought back the short breaths. Movements ceased from the other side of the phone.

"Sugar. Why are your breaths like that?"

My lips closed. My breathing began to go in and out through my nose.

"You have to talk," Lydia said, "what are you thinking?"

How stupid this is, I'm perfectly fine.

"Nothing." I finally responded.

"You're lying."

It is nothing.

"I'm concerned," Lydia replied, "I want to know. My best friend calls and I tell her that my baby girl watched White Christmas. I'm stressing out over these material objects that she'll only play for a year – hopefully for a longer time - then I'll have to donate them. I have a feeling why you might be calling. I know that this is the first Christmas that-."

Lydia took a breath in.

I brought up my knees toward my chest.

"This is the first Christmas that your Mama has passed."

There it was. How could Lydia pinpoint so quickly? How did I say so easily?

"She isn't here. She was here last year but wasn't herself."

Lydia stopped. "I don't need to say anything else. You know more than I do."

I cried.

"I can't bake her cookies," I said.

Of course, I knew that Lydia probably didn't hear all that. My words jumbled together. My constants were not crisp and spit was on my cell phone.

"I-I can't even bake Papa's." I continued to ramble. "All the good stores are closed. I'm here at the Stop N' Go. They're out of stock."

I wiped my spit on my jacket's sleeve. "Snickerdoodles are her favorite – you know. I want – need to make them."

I looked down at the ground. "I should have been here four days ago."

Lydia sighed. "Now, now, don't beat yourself up."

"I should have-"

"None of that," Lydia said, in her motherly authoritative voice.

I cried.

Lydia listened. She didn't harp on how I was a grown adult that needed to "grow up," to be responsible and stop crying.

Pain ebbed between my eyes.

"I'm sorry-" I was cut off.

"Your feelings are valid. You have every right to feel what you feel," Lydia said.

I tried to say it again.

"What did I just tell you?" Lydia chuckled.

I smiled. My nose turned into a nice, ruby red. My cheeks blocky and snot ran down my mouth and chin. I let out a sigh.

"I probably have the ingredients. Send me a text to remind me tomorrow, then we'll bake the cookies," Lydia confirmed.

Of course! Why didn't I think of that to begin with!

"That's perfect," I said, "I'll text you the materials. I wish I could hug you."

Lydia laughed. "Well, I have to go. I have to finish wrapping the presents. See you tomorrow!"

"Bye, Lydia. Thank you."

"Goodbye," Lydia said, in a sing-songy way.

My arms and legs were sore. I knew I had to get up. In my right hand, I held onto my cell phone. I pushed down on the ground to lift myself up.

My fingers tried to comb my hair into a less messy arrangement.

The pull was gone. I didn't have pressure on my lungs anymore. Instead, my shoulders hunched forward and I frowned.

Why did I do that?

I knew why. I didn't want to admit this was a crack in my armor. Everything was listed and completed successfully. This wasn't my plan. I walked out of Stop N' Go.

The freezing rain continued. Pulling up my hood, my whole jacket sustained the bone-chilling water within the material. My apartment was near Hyde Park, and I was nowhere in the general vicinity. My silver 2000 Toyota parked on the side street, I paid $2.00 in case I went over my time. The time I spent was 50 cents.

My keys hung off of my small purse. I unlocked my car and got into it. Once I opened the door, I locked it back up.

Dottie must be whining. She probably wants more food.

A xylophone rang. I reached for my cell phone and saw the new notification.

It was Lydia.

Another text came in.

I laughed.

I wouldn't have thought anything different of Lydia. I clicked on the first notification and typed:

I was going to state where I was. Realizing I didn't know for sure, I glanced around my surroundings. I wasn't in front of the Stop N' Go gas station. I parked along the street where other restaurants, bars, and chain shopping stores were at. One place stood out more than the rest. With its enormous Times Roman font and light bulbs of a sign, the bar titled Golden Era. Underneath the name, there was a description: arcade + bar.

I nearly dropped my phone.

I remembered my colleagues mentioned a new, hipster bar that collected all the retro arcade games. The best part was no one had to pay to play! It was free! The specialty drinks were a bit on the pricey side. However, I didn't drink that much. I disliked the burning sensation and bitter aftertaste; but, I did enjoy fruity and sweet drinks. My colleagues mentioned all the games they had: Ms. Pac-Man, Rampage, Galaga, Centipede, Q*bert, and more. I drove past the bar and I was always side-tracked with other events and errands to accomplish.

I pushed the idea when I'll attend the place.

I'm sure Dottie and Amadeus are doing fine. I can pop in and out. I'll play one round of Ms. Pac-Man and then I'll go home.

I clicked on my phone and quickly typed:

I pushed my phone back into my jacket.

Before I could think of a reason not to go inside the bar, I opened and then closed my door. I locked my car and crossed the street.

A tall, round bouncer stood outside the door. He wore a one-piece ear set. His dark brown coat covered half of his suit. His expression was unreadable. Thin lips were closed and watched me.

"Hello," I greeted him. Raising my hand in an awkward wave.

"Let me see your ID."

"Oh – yes, of course."

I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet. My driver's license was swished in between the plastic cover and the wallet material. The plastic cover pinched my fingers.

"Here." I handed him my ID.

He didn't gaze down at my license. "You can go in."

He stood upright and stared ahead towards the street.

All that work and nothing.

"Thanks."

I put my license back and shoved my wallet into my purse. My eyes scanned the entire area. The open room was organized and rearranged for all the arcade games to be clustered into three sections. All I wanted to play was the pink and yellow circular creature. I received strange looks from other players and customers. My paramedic attire had them gawking at my disheveled appearance: one untied shoe, salt streaks all on my navy jeans, the thick and heavy soak jacket, and my scarlet face.

Customers gathered around the super famous ones like Pac-Man, Galaga, and Centipede. I stood on my toes to see if I could obtain a better view of the place. There in the corner was Ms. Pac-Man herself!

Giggling, I rushed over. A couple tried to take the spot but I beat them to it.

I pressed the pink circle and held onto the joystick.

"Here we go!" I cheered. The continuous beeping directed my attention instead of the xylophone noise in my pocket. I ran away from all the ghosties. Then with the magical power of the fruit, Ms. Pac-Man ate them all. I achieved the first level. Before I realized, I was on level thirty.

With one life left, I knew when I lost that life it'll be my time to head home.

My right arm held the joystick and left arm leaned against the direction panel. My eyes kept in line where the ghosts were located and where she could go. Sticking my tongue out, I quickly ran away into the right corridor and came out on the left side.

"No, no! Go away, ghosts!"

I went back into the left corridor. My heart raced. The palm of my hands began to sweat.

I didn't feel a presence behind me.

Not the eyes of an individual who quite frankly enjoyed my excitement to their surprise.

The person took a step forward.

My character, Ms. Pac-Man, ran away from two ghosts. They almost cornered me in the left section.

"You won't get me now!" I smirked.

I had one fruit left and I had two ghosts, which I could easily win if I didn't get cornered again.

The orange ghost was right behind me, I was a few spaces away from the fruit.

"Almost there," I whispered.

The person took another step forward and leaned into my personal space. More than that, the person was near my ear.

"Hello, lollipop."

The warmth of their breath tickled my ear.