A Christmas Story

A handful of packages set under the tree and, with a deep breath against a spread palm, a sprinkle of sparkling dust flew into the air above it all.

On the rocks. Not like a drink, which is exactly what she needed right now. No… on the rocks… as in having serious difficulties — likely to crash and burn. That’s where their marriage was right now: sliding down an embankment with no happy ending in sight.

But, to avoid complicating everyone’s holidays, they were currently avoiding discussion. If they were going to fail, they’d be polite and wait until mid-January when it was less of an inconvenience to their friends and family.

For now, Maria had made a habit of simply coming home, drinking wine until she felt floaty and stopped caring, feeding and bathing their son, burying herself in holiday preparations, and falling asleep, a little drunk, in front of the Christmas tree. It was impossible to give in completely to depression under the glow of slowly blinking twinkle lights.

Maria wrapped a home-made afghan around her shoulders, sipped her cabernet, and lost herself in the vision. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. She and William had planned to take Chris to the ice-skating rink. And no matter how bad things were between them, she refused to let it intrude on the perfect Norman Rockwell holiday she had in mind.

She cozied into the couch, set her head on a throw pillow, and fell asleep. Breathing in and out, with resignation, she gave into a few tears, noting how they made the lights run together, blurring the entire scene into a mess of color. Contemplating the changing patterns created by her blinking, she fell asleep, the glass in her hand eventually spilling onto the floor.

Maria woke to the vision of a red stain on the rug.

“Fuuuuccckk…” the word dragged out in a long, whispered breath.

She climbed out of her blanket cocoon, retrieved the carpet cleaning spray and a rag, and set to work scrubbing away the evidence of her mistake.

Fifteen minutes later, there was still a faint pink smudge, and it didn’t look like any amount of product or muscle was going to erase it.

“So, it’s going to be this kind of day, is it?” Maria looked up at the ceiling, sighing, willing herself to see beyond the plaster, insulation, and roofing, straight up to the clouds in the sky. Surely God was sitting up there, staring back down at her, shaking his head in disappointment. She imagined his voice in her ear, “All the gifts I’ve given you, and you simply cannot take care of one of them.” Nothing like merging your notion of God with your own judgmental inner critic.

Maria heard the stomping of little feet running in her direction and pulled on a smile to greet her son.

They spent the day wrapped in tradition. A pancake breakfast, ice skating in the town square, wandering through the winter village there, hot cocoa, and new pajamas. William and Maria read several stories to Chris, until he nodded off between them, rosy-cheeked from the day’s exertion and the heat of the fireplace. The room was over-warm, and Maria felt herself beginning to sweat. She’d promised Chris the fire would be out by the time Santa showed up, but the crackling sounds and bright, dancing flames gave her something to focus on other than her mess of a relationship. The man she called husband was only inches from her now, but inside he was miles away.

Chris had been a miracle. He’d shown up early in their marriage, after the doctors had told them both she’d be unable to conceive. The birth was long and difficult, and it forced her to have an emergency hysterectomy. Maria was disappointed that they’d not have a house full of children, but they’d counted their blessings and focused all their parenting energy on Chris, who grew into a chubby, jubilant child with perpetually sticky fingers and a brilliantly mischievous streak.

William was a perfect father: doting, protective, and fun. And Maria lost herself to mothering, as women are wont to do. The sleepless nights and fulfilling the constant needs of her child left her exhausted most of the time. And, as is so sadly common, the marriage bed had suffered.

Neglect, plain and simple, formed a wide crevasse between William and Maria, and neither of them knew quite how to cross it. So they didn’t. And the crevasse turned into a canyon.

And now, here they sat, nodding off, less than a foot away from each other, a beautiful pink-cheeked boy between them, incapable of saying the right words to each other.

William scooped Chris into his arms. “I’ll put him to bed. Shall we put out the train set?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I’ll get the stocking stuffers, too.”

For the next hour, they silently busied themselves, readying the room for Christmas morning. No matter their issues, neither of them would allow their problems to cloud Chris’s magical moment. When they were finished, they both stood back, admiring the scene. They’d created such a beautiful life. Enviable from the outside.

“Whiskey?” he asked.

Maria started, her eyes widened in surprise. It was the first time in weeks he’d invited her to do anything, even if it was simply to share a glass of spirits.

“Y-yes,” she stuttered.

He disappeared into the other room for a moment and reappeared with two glasses half-filled with gleaming amber liquid that seemed to glow in the firelight. William handed her a glass, and their fingers touched in the passing. It gave her a pleasant shock, and Maria licked her lips in response.

She sat down on the couch, William sat in the chair across from her, and they both sat in pregnant silence, sipping, blinking, breathing, and avoiding each other’s gaze.

William had brought the bottle. It sat on the table between them, glimmering. The good stuff that they only brought out for special occasions.

She noticed his glass was empty. “Another?”

“Yes, please.” He held out his glass to her, and she set hers down to fill his.

They stared into the fire, drinking, until her belly was burning; she could feel the heat spreading throughout her insides. It made her feel heavy and drowsy, her lids weighted and seeking to close.

The last thing she noticed was the gold filigree of the “Our First Christmas Together” ornament glittering in the dying light of the fire.

Who knew what time it was. But at some point in the night, a bright light shone in the sky above Maria and William’s house. It stopped, and shot right down the chimney, sending bits of still warm ash scattering and puffing in the hearth.

A bite from a cookie left out by a hopeful child. A slight brush of red velvet against the outstretched hand of a sleeping woman. The touch of pristine leather glove against a sleeping man’s cheek. A handful of packages set under the tree and, with a deep breath against a spread palm, a sprinkle of sparkling dust flew into the air above it all.

It left nearly as quickly as it had come.

A chill filled the air. Maria blinked and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch. Wrapping it around her, she breathed in a sweet scent and fell back to sleep.

And that is when the dreams began.

Muffled laughter moved toward her and clarified to vibrant sound. Bright light focused from a giant blur in the distance to a crisp scene of a tiny apartment living room. There was a sad, spindly tree at the center, its branches drooping under the weight of a single strand of multi-colored lights and a dozen shiny, metallic red baubles.

Maria saw herself sitting on the floor, her eyes sparkling, giggling, a package half-way unwrapped in her lap. William sat beside her, a glass of whiskey in hand, laughing in tandem. It was a wooden box, stamped with the word “Fragile,” but she knew exactly what it was. She watched herself open the box and pull out a lamp, the base in the shape of a woman’s leg, covered in fishnet… the ivory shade decorated with fringe.

“This is perfect! Our first real Christmas decoration!”

She watched her younger self jump up and place the lamp on the side table, bend to plug it in, and stand back with her arms crossed, gazing at the spectacle with pure satisfaction. A tacky decoration, in a crappy third-story apartment, and yet, it was “perfect.”

William stood beside her, handing her a glass. She remembered clearly that it was much cheaper whiskey than they could afford now, but still more expensive than they could really afford then. It had been her gift to him. That was all they had that year. A bottle of whiskey, a silly lamp, and a pathetic tree. But there was electricity between them far more precious than any tangible thing they could own.

Younger Maria turned toward younger William, kissing his whiskey-laced lips and savoring the flavor. She breathed in his cheap cologne, digging underneath it for the actual scent of him. She’d loved that cheap cologne.

Still holding the glass, she slid down his body and knelt, single-handedly unbuttoning his 501s and yanking them down to his knees. She slipped her fingers inside the front flap of his boxers and pulled out his already growing cock, kissing the tip and licking its underside slowly.

Setting her glass on the floor, she pulled his balls out and cupped them in her palm, kissing each of them in turn, her other hand wrapped around the base of his erection. She placed her lips around him, and moved toward him, until his cock touched the back of her throat. William groaned, and she reveled in the juxtaposition of his entire being going soft while his cock hardened and his thighs and buttocks tightened.

“Oh, God, Maria…” he breathed her name, and she felt warmth explode inside her. It took so little back then.

Her nipples blossomed beneath her t-shirt, and her cunt clenched in expectation, pulsing in time with his orgasm. William sunk to his knees to face her, set his glass next to hers on the floor, and pressed his lips against hers. Their tongues were hungry. His hands wrapped in her hair, hers hurriedly pulling his t-shirt over his head. In a mess of want and rush, they clumsily removed just enough clothing to access all the necessary parts, knocking over both glasses of whiskey as they fell to the floor, William on top of her, the length of him strong and masculine and primally aggressive.

William’s fingers gravitated toward her cunt, which was slick with desire. He ran one finger between her labia, spreading them, slipping inside to prime her for the entry of something larger. She moaned and arched her back in response, her walls tightening around his finger.

“Such a hungry girl,” he growled in her ear. And she melted beneath him, her whole body opening to him, as he guided his cock to the opening of her cunt and slowly entered her all the way to his balls.

Maria woke in a flush of heat, startled and panting. It took a few moments to orient herself in time and space, glancing around the room and taking in the hushed scene. As she adjusted, her breathing slowed, and her gaze came to rest on her sleeping husband, curled in the over-sized armchair across from her. A tiny bit of silver had begun to appear in his hair this year, and the soft glow of the still-lit tree caught the strands and made them sparkle in the near dark. His face was shadowed, but she could see the curve of his chin covered in stubble, and she yearned to kiss him just there, her body still vibrating from the dream. His eyes twitched a bit, as if he, too, were dreaming, and she wondered, with silly childish glee, what visions of sugarplums danced in his head.

Sugarplums, indeed. His large hands held Maria’s ample breasts, naked and hot, the nipples hard as rocks against his open palms.

William went rigid with the realization that his wife was near him, let alone naked and actually touching him.

The fuck? He thought to himself. What was going on? How had he gotten here? Did whiskey go bad? Had someone had drugged him? Had he had a stroke?

Somehow, time must have skipped, or he was drunk. That must be it. We drank ourselves into this.

But what to do now? This could get complicated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this and then face the morning, unraveling what had happened, deciding what to do next. Sex couldn’t fix what was broken between them.

But, oh, God… the feel of her skin on his.

His body gave in before his mind could stop him, and he found himself slowly slipping inside of her, her legs opening to accommodate the size of him, his hips pressing against the insides of her thighs. It felt like home, the way he fit snug within her, wrapped in her body as if she were a blanket shielding him from the world’s cold. That’s what she’d always been to him: warmth and protection. He can’t remember why or how that had changed. And in this moment, it ceased to matter.

Pulling and pushing, he lost himself in the walls of her soft, warm cunt, as it squeezed around his shaft. She writhed beneath him, rising to meet each measured thrust.

Their movements weren’t as frenzied or hungry as they had been when they were younger. Instead, they moved like ocean waves against each other, expectant, yet knowing another wave would follow. A practiced and comfortable dance.

William lowered his torso onto hers, careful not to crush her, and breathed in the scent of her hair. The swell of Maria’s soft breasts against his chest made his abdomen clench, and he could feel his balls tightening. She wrapped her legs around him, and he lost his hold, exploding into her, his entire body contracting and releasing repeatedly, leaving him a shaking, vulnerable mess on top of her pulsing form.

It had been a long time since he’d come inside of her. Even longer since they’d come together. And it took a lengthy moment before he was ready to peel himself away from her, rolling to the side on the floor. He was afraid it would break the spell, but he pulled the afghan over them both, and she snuggled up next to him, fitting like a puzzle piece against his side, her head perched on his chest.

They fell asleep like that. Wordless and cautiously content.

William cracked his lids to the sound of his son’s squealing, “Santa came! Santa came!” He shook himself awake in a sudden panic, worried that Chris would find his mom and dad sprawled naked in front of the tree. But when he opened his eyes wide in concern, he saw himself still reclined in the armchair, Maria wrapped in the old, faded afghan on the couch across from him. Two empty glasses and an entirely full, still-sealed bottle of very expensive whiskey sat on the coffee table between them. The fire was blazing, new logs shifting beneath the heat. And Chris was bouncing with delight on his knees in front of the tree. Several toys he’d never seen were piled in front of the joyful child, wrapping paper torn and piled around him like colorful snow drifts.

Maria was finally coming to. She glanced around her, taking in the same details that William had, her face contorted with the same unspoken questions. She sat up, her hair rumpled, the afghan’s pattern etched into the side of her sleepy face.

William felt his stomach sink, a full and deep awareness of his need for her.

Maria felt the exact same thing.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then they both looked down at the bottle of whiskey.

“How is that possible?” Maria asked.

“I’m not sure,” William replied.

They both looked at the toys scattered around their child.

“Did you buy those?” William asked.

“No,” Maria replied.

Maria glanced at the tree, lights still twinkling in the twilit room. The blazing fire made the room snug and hot, and she pulled the blanket off of her, discarding it over the back of the couch.

“Did you start a new fire?” Maria asked.

“No,” William replied.

They looked at each other, puzzled.

Maria broke the gaze first, her eyes landing on a small package, wrapped neatly in red paper with a gold bow, next to the fire. William followed the path of her glance and retrieved the package. He read the tag aloud.

“It says, to William and Maria…from Santa?” They shared a suspicious look.

“Well, open it,” Maria urged.

William fumbled with the ribbon and paper, used his pocketknife to cut through the tape on the box, and rustled in the tissue paper, pulling out a delicate glass ornament. It was a leg, donned in fishnets, with a fringed lampshade on top.

William looked at Maria meaningfully, and Maria simply began to cry.

Neither of them said anything. But they both felt a deep healing begin.

More from Brigit…

Another festive tale by Sonja Rae