Susan stood in the hall wondering why she had accepted the gift of mistletoe; with no chance of being kissed, it seemed ridiculous to hang it above the door. Then she remembered that the florist had smiled at her, just before wrapping the posy in with the advent wreath. Susan had felt she had no choice but to feign happiness, cover her grief yet again, and smile back. Now she wished she had told him, no, yelled at him, that this gesture of seasonal joy had instead pierced her heart. She let the flowers drop out of her hand, white turning crimson as they fell to the floor.