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1
Joy
Outside,it’s a balmy negative two degrees. In the lane, snow is glistening under the moon’s soft light, and I can hear the jingle of bells as some of the reindeer take the sleigh out for a nighttime test drive. I should be at home in the kitchen, humming and pulling a fresh sheet of gingerbread cookies—Mom’s recipe—out of the oven to cool and fill the house with Christmas scents. But I’m not.
I’m out on a date with a guy I met in Christmas Village. Or maybe I should say, I’m currently attempting to escape from said date via the ladies’ bathroom window. But The Drunken Elfdidn’t properly plan for women’s needs. This window is way too damn high!
Don’t they realize that women need to sneak away from gropey dates? Especially ones who’ve admitted they’ve really taken to their latest hobby—creating Victorian hair wreaths. Yes, wreaths made of hair. Human hair.
I shudder, remembering how Alan reached towards me, his green wings trembling in delight. The dragon shifter had leaned forward, his ruffled white shirt collar nearly dragging through his lamb soup—he had a very steampunk look—as he fingered one of my long blonde locks, a strange longing in his eyes that I don’t think had anything to do with sex.
Thank goodness. But also not. Not goodness. Because hair wreaths are up there with skin suits in the icky department.
My horror movie fetish surfaces and makes drunken me shudder, thinking about Buffalo Bill and Hannibal Lector. This is avery bad thing, since I currently have one shoeless foot propped up on the bathroom sink and the other lifted in midair, attempting to gain purchase on the window ledge. It’s not a good position for shuddering. Or much of anything.
My groin whines in protest as I try and stretch just a bit further.
“Cupid’s left nut! This is hard!” I huff as my foot swipes futilely at the ledge.
Nope.
It’s not gonna happen. I give one last longing look at my escape hatch before carefully climbing down and sliding back into my white, fur-lined high-heeled boots. I untuck my green and red paneled skirt from my pantyhose and straighten the off-the-shoulder fur collar. The festive wreath in my hair somehow survived my climb, so I don’t fix it. I just stare into the mirror and make a disgusted face at myself. “Why couldn’t you inherit the wings?” I ask my reflection.
She doesn’t have answers, not any more than Dad does. Sometimes half-angel children get the wings, sometimes they don’t. Unfortunately, it appears Santa’s daughter isn’t cool enough to fly like the big angels. No wings for me. Which means no escaping from shitty dates. I’m just going to have to face the music. I’ll have to march back out there to Alan and…
Lie.
My mother, Laura, was human. As a half-human, that means I can lie. In a village full of angels…it’s quite the perk.
Yes. Christmas is run by angels. Not elves. Duh. Did you really think elves would be so selfless? Not by a longshot.
I blow out a big breath and shake out my hands, just as a cherub with Dolly Parton hair enters the bathroom.
“Oh hey, Joy!” she calls.
“Hey!” I give her a wave and a smile.
“Having a nightcap after a long day at the workshop,” she tells me, adjusting her white sweater as she walks towards a stall. “You?”
“Same.” See? Lying is beneficial. Now all the cherubs at the office will not know about this humiliating attempt to get myself laid. And if they don’t know, that means news won’t get back to my father. You know, the big guy. The person who puts jolly in…well, jolly.
“Well, see you tomorrow! Hope you’re making some of those reindeer sugar cookies for the breakroom!”
“I’ll add it to my baking list,” I say through gritted teeth and a fake ass smile. I hate when the cherubs put in orders, which they do all the time! It stifles my creativity. Just let me bake! Grr.
That little pet peeve rubs my insides like one-hundred grit sandpaper.
Yes, Santa’s daughter knows her sandpapers, all right? Comes with the territory.
I make my way back over to the table, where I find Alan using a knife to slice off a bit of the waitress’s hair. Not even scissors. He’s using his steak knife, and she’s letting him because angels can be so utterly stupid sometimes. How motherfucking creepy is that?
Okay, Michael Meyers, now I’m not even faking stomach cramps for your benefit. I decide just to ghost him. I slide sideways along the back wall of the bar towards the coat closet.
I hiss at Larry, the cherub manning the coats. “I need my cloak please.”
It feels like an eternity while he digs around in the back, fluttering from coat to coat and checking a million tags. My eyes flicker impatiently between him and my date at the table.
When I notice Alan stand up at the table, gazing around the bar, I literally dive into the coat closet.
