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The sensory assault of the main rec room
is in keeping with typical human excess.
Specimens of Abies procera and Abies balsamea
are on display
filling the air with their scent,
every branch completely laden
with bright ornamentation
nearly obscuring the evergreen conifers beneath.
It seems pointless that
Lt. Sulu spent so much time
carefully nurturing them in botany
if they are to be barely visible beneath the weight
of their decorations.

McCoy offers me a highly caloric beverage.
I pretend ignorance of the custom of “eggnog”
and speak of the illogic
of human solstice traditions.
He snorts and grins.
“I still can’t believe Jim managed to drag you here.”
He begins to embark on his own brand of illogic
as we walk further into the room.
He has recently made a study
of ancient Vulcan customs
and is eager to demonstrate that
my own people possessed illogic
in ages past.

I avoid the trap in the center of the room.
There is a specimen of Phoradendron flavescens
hanging from the ceiling.
It has caused much revelry among the crew.

McCoy, however, has seen Lt. Barrows.
And she has seen him.
In perfect synchronization they move to meet
and kiss beneath it.

Tables are filled
with the gleam and glitter of countless packages.
They will be opened at an appointed time.
Cpt. Kirk will make a speech,
and they will be exchanged.

I am certain that the noise level will be painful and behavior raucous.
I will be back on the bridge by then.
You will suggest I stay.
And you will, logically, let me go.
I need no gifts
Other than what you give me freely. Every day.

You walk the room
drawing all eyes
though the party continues
with only imperceptible pauses
as you pass by.
You stop here and there
free with your gifts of greetings, comments, compliments.

I can classify them,
these gifts you give to me,
as subsets of human behavior.

I can classify them,
The language of emotion
is as complex as the language of logic.
Friendship. Amusement. Trust.
Interest. Intrigue. Speculation.

…desire? ….love…

It would be illogical to make such inferences
were it not for the preponderance of evidence.
You are generous with your gifts.

There are your smiles,
nearly infinite in variety,
dazzling as light across the miracle of water
and generous as Earth’s oceans
and often directed
solely at me.

There are your glances, which take me in.
in whole,
and in part.
Your gazes,
the way your eyes meet mine
as if you find me as endlessly fascinating.
As I do you.

There is your touch
A hand on my arm, my shoulder.
The brush of an elbow against my side.
Standing so close
there is no light between us.
The way you lean closer when speaking to me
your breath upon my skin.

Precious gifts all.

You have made your circuit of the room
and head directly back in my direction
through the heart of the room.

Your gaze catches mine.
You smile.

It is illogical
to feel a sensation of warmth.
The response, however, is a fact.
and I accept it.
I respond
permitting only the smallest smile in return.

You glance at the trap. Many are watching you,
if you will pause beneath it.

You keep my glance.
You step
with only the briefest of hesitations
beneath the mistletoe.
Your smile, your gaze, does not waver
and you are moving again
walking away before
any could take you up on the customary invitation.

And stop.
Before me.

“Great party, Spock.”

His hand, ever so briefly, brushes against mine.
Unspoken, but clear.
He understands the significance. I do not doubt.
It blazes between us.
The gift he is ready to give
is awaiting my acceptance.
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