The Thanksgiving gathering went wonderfully well. Now the guests were gone, and Molly sighed contentedly. What a nice feast among family and friends. “Your stuffing was so good,” Don said as he tied an apron around his waist. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Mmmm,” Molly agreed. “It was good, wasn’t it?” She took one last sip of the excellent wine, handed the glass to Don, and lay back on the sofa, relaxing while Don cleaned up and started the dishwasher. Perhaps she dozed.

Don’s kiss woke her. “I have a little Thanksgiving present for you,” he said, handing her a flat box wrapped in soft silver foil. Beneath the silver ribbon was a single red rose.

“Oh, how beautiful,” Molly said, sniffing the rose. She took her time opening the box. “How nice! A satin nightie.”

“Try it on,” Don urged.

“Right here? Right now?” Molly looked to the big picture window. Midnight black outside, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t see in.

“I’ll dim the lights,” Don offered. “But not too much.”

Shyly, Molly removed her clothing. She could feel Don’s eyes caressing her skin. Perhaps there were eyes outside, watching her, too. She slipped into the little nightie. It fit perfectly, coming down just to the top of her hips. She twirled around. “Ooh, I feel like a snowflake.”

“You look beautiful,” Don told her. “It’s too bad snowflakes have to melt.”

Molly gave Don a lascivious look. “Maybe I could melt on your tongue.”

“What a great idea, but first we have to play the games.”

“Games? What games?”

“The traditional Thanksgiving games.”

“I don’t know about those,” Molly said.

“You’ve never heard of drop the clothespin in the bottle? When I was a kid I loved that game. Of course we don’t have milk bottles in this day and age.”

“We don’t have clothespins, either,” Molly said.

Don’s face brightened. “I know, we can use rose petals. And for the bottle, you just kneel on the couch and drop the rose petals into this wine bottle. Simple as pie.”

“You’re kidding,” Molly said. “The opening is much too small.”

“Try it,” Don said. “Come on, be a sport. Play the game.”

“Oh, all right. But I really hate to dismantle this beautiful rose.”

“Do it!” Don commanded.

“Sometimes I don’t know about you,” Molly said, but she detached an outer petal. “Poor little rose,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She leaned over the side of the couch and looked down at the wine bottle. “This is silly,” she said. “This rose petal will never go in.”

“Try it!”