Frosty moon. Pretty flakes like shards of glass floating through the black sky. Ornamental trees, wrapped packages, the scent of cinnamon--depressing. On radio: Dean Martin's "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Every goddamn time the bells in that song ding, you flinch. Never your phone.
"Refill?” says Stacy, carafe in hand. “On the house.”
The way Dean holds a note. The fucking way he drags it out.
Bells, hollow, tinny, taunting, mocking. Ring, goddammit.
Stacy wipes down counters.
Drink up. Next year, a new life. As in, get one.
"’Night.” You wait, hope. “Merry Christmas.”
Just another silent night.
"Refill?” says Stacy, carafe in hand. “On the house.”
The way Dean holds a note. The fucking way he drags it out.
Bells, hollow, tinny, taunting, mocking. Ring, goddammit.
Stacy wipes down counters.
Drink up. Next year, a new life. As in, get one.
"’Night.” You wait, hope. “Merry Christmas.”
Just another silent night.
