(I have this thing with writing Christmas stories...this is the third I've ever written and the only one without animals)

Ivan was standing at the counter, whistling along with Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’.
He looked through the small apartment’s living room to the front window. By the light of the street lamp, he could see there was no snow—just cold, cracked pavement. He turned away, muttering under his breath.
“I’d really hoped for a white Christmas this year.”