I brush the shattered glass into the dustpan, the tinkling music of the shards the only noise in the silent office.
I kneel close to the floor, the smell of peat and smoke rising from the amber stain spreading over the gray carpet. The whiskey smell is almost strong enough to block out the lingering scent of gingerbread, peppermint, and evergreen.
Unfortunately, whiskey isn’t strong enough to block out Christmas.
That’s a known fact.
I grip the cool plastic dustpan, now full of glistening glass shards, reminiscent of icicles striking concrete, and let them slide, flashing and jingling into the trash.
The light reflecting off the glass, playing in golds and reds and silvers, reminds me of the woman.
What was her name again?
The light played off her in the same way, her necklace and earrings flashing unapologetically.
When I stepped off the elevator this morning, I didn’t see the decorations—not at first.
I’d been reading an email, formulating a reply, expecting my office to remain that cool, monotone haven, a refuge from the annual Christmas assault that takes over the city.
Then I heard it. The sound of bells, high and bright and annoyingly cheerful.
And then the smell of gingerbread and evergreen grabbed me by the throat and squeezed.
I looked up quickly, dumbfounded that somehow Christmas had retrenched and my office was the new frontline. But instead of seeing the office strung up with garish decorations and the giant Christmas tree, I saw her.
The long rows of cubicles, the overhead fluorescent lights, the gray walls, the gray carpet squares, all of it became a sort of M.C. Escher painting arrowing dizzily to her.
The entire office was bathed in grayscale, the rows narrowing and pointing, all leading to the one bright, shining woman.
I’d never seen her before. If I had I would’ve dropped down on my knees and proposed the second I laid eyes on her.
She was the only spot of color in the whole world. She was glowing and bright, her face lit with a carefree, joyful smile that lifted me up just from being near.
Her hair was a mass of chestnut curls, long and wild, and my fingers itched to bury in its softness and kiss her. Because her mouth, it was bright red and laughing.
I took a step forward, moving without thought. I was in a stupor, a haze, my heart tugged me forward and I followed. I didn’t know who she was, but I knew it was fate that she was here. She…she…she was glowing because of the red and green Christmas lights flashing at her ears.
I jerked to a stop, shook my head. My shoulders tightened as I breathed in the gingerbread scent filling the office.
The woman was bright because she was in a red velvet Christmas dress. She was laughing because she was surrounded by a mountain of garland, a river of blinking lights, a choir of jangling Christmas chords.
No.
A tight fist closed around my heart and a bitter, metallic tang burned my throat.
Behind me, the elevator doors dinged shut, a brush of air pushing over me.
All of that, finding the woman of my dreams and then losing her to Christmas took less than five seconds.
My life changed, I found her, needed her, wanted her, and then the door slammed shut.
It’s then I took in the rest of my office. The cool, quiet space that kept the season out had been transformed from a professional workspace to a Christmas fantasyland.
My stomach rolled, my throat burned. The sound of jingle bells struck me like the hooves of the horse on that darned sleigh kicking me in the head.
It was all her fault.
The woman who I thought was the one was not. She was, in reality, everything that I loathed, come to stick a sharpened candy cane in my heart and twist.
Let’s just say I didn’t respond well when confronted with that fact.
She took her Christmas and herself away and if there’s a dull emptiness in me, well that’s just December, isn’t it?
It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before and won’t happen again next year.
I drop the dustpan next to the trash bin and stride over to my desk.
My office is along the eastern side of the building, a wall of windows looks over the city and a sea of windows looks back, hundreds of offices, thousands of lives. It’s dark, but I’m not the only one with my lights on, working. Seeing the yellow lights dotting other office buildings makes me feel less alone.
I sit in the cold leather chair, run my hands over the cool walnut of my desk, and close my eyes, feeling the dry heat of the HVAC humming overhead. The spilled whiskey scent is so strong I can taste it.
I reach down to the bottom drawer of my desk, slide it open and pull out an orange prescription bottle.
The pills clank and rattle as I set the bottle on my desk. I stare at it. Drum my fingers against my desk.
My computer screen turns on from the vibration, bathing the dimly lit room in a blue artificial glow. My bookshelves across the room, the modern paintings on the wall from the gallery down the street, the leather chair facing my desk, they all turn computer blue.
The ringing of my phone jars the silence. It’s my cell, otherwise I’d let it go to voicemail. I smile when I see who it is.
“What do you want?” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Good question. Hello Gabe,” says Cecily, her Long Island accent strong, which means she’s irritated with me. Whenever she’s prickly her accent comes on hard. “Since you asked, I’d like a trip to Barbados, all expenses paid, with an all-day kids club for June and Jeb so I can wear a bikini, lounge by the pool, drink a liter of strawberry daiquiris, and have some uninterrupted alone time with Dale. How’s that sound?”
I lean forward, my chair squeaking, and drop my elbows to my desk.
“Hi Cecily.”
She huffs. I can feel her displeasure over the phone. She’s my cousin, two years older than me, a nurse at a hospital in Long Island, and mom to my niece and nephew.
As kids, we spent most summer vacations together, wandering the hot sidewalks of the city, eating sticky melting popsicles, and splashing each other in public fountains.
She knows I don’t do December, or Christmas, which is why she’s calling.
“Hi Gabe. You haven’t been by in weeks.”
“Yes.” That’s not unusual. I don’t ever come by in December.
“The kids miss you.”
“They miss me giving in and buying them whatever they want,” I say, flicking my finger against the orange pill bottle. The pills rattle and clank against the plastic.
“Are you still at the office?” she asks, a frown in her voice.
“I’m working on the Hudson Apartments,” I tell her, thinking about how the woman came back, how she told me she lives there.
I shift uncomfortably, ignoring the ghost of gingerbread and peppermint.
“I don’t like that project,” Cecily says. She’s voiced concerns since the beginning.
“I know. Neither do I.” We’re silent for a moment, then I say, “Delilah stopped by.”
Cecily and Delilah were once friends, which is how Delilah and I met.
“I’m sorry. Did she throw something?”
Delilah is known for throwing things when she wants to make a point. She was a stellar dodgeball player in high school.
“She did. I ended our…” I don’t know what to call it.
“Booty calls?”
“It was never—”
“I don’t actually want to know.”
“Regardless. I told her we wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore.”
“Good. She’s not right for you.”
I smile. Cecily doesn’t hold back.
We’re quiet for a moment. On my end there’s the hum of the air vent, the flutter of a piece of paper on the desk in the cross breeze of the air, and the static flicker of my screen.
On her end there’s the sound of dishes being loaded into a dishwasher, running water, and the kids’ voices, barely distinguishable.
She’s surrounded by family, doing the dishes, hearing their warmth. She’ll have her tree up, a wreath on the door, presents under the tree.
Me? I’m here, surrounded by silence. Alone.
“I called to ask you over for Christmas dinner,” she says, her voice falsely casual. “Eight o’clock at our place, no need to bring anything.”
I pause and consciously keep my jaw from tightening, “I’ll think about it.”
“You say that every year.”
“And I think about it every year.” I think about it for the second it takes me to discard it.
She sighs, “Gabe. You can’t keep doing this. Shutting out Christmas won’t bring Lee back.”
My chest tightens, that fist around my heart clenching. I shove my chair back and stand, pacing to the window.
The city lights are bright, far down below a bell ringer jangles their bell for Christmas charity. They aren’t having any luck, the snow-covered sidewalks are nearly empty of people.
When I don’t answer her, Cecily continues, her voice insistent, “Every year it’s the same. You close yourself off. You refuse to acknowledge Christmas. It’s not right. Lee loved Christmas. You can’t keep shutting yourself off. Lee would want—”
“You have no idea what Lee would or wouldn’t want. This has nothing to do with Christmas. It has nothing to do with Lee.”
Cecily gives a sharp huff. “Fine. We’ll not talk about it. The invitation stands. Christmas dinner. The kids miss you.”
After Cecily hangs up I stand at the window, ignoring the blurry line of my reflection. I know what I’d see. A hard mouth, exhaustion, the weight of Christmas past pushing down on me.
Cecily has a picture of us, Lee and I, holding hands standing next to Cecily, grinning in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree. She told me she puts it out every Christmas. I saw it the one and only time I went to her place in December. After that, I’ve never been back.
I turn and stride to my desk, grab the bottle of pills.
I twist the cap, the edges scraping my palm as I pull it free. The lid lifts with a pop. The pills have a chemical coating smell.
I didn’t expect to need this.
But the exhaustion is too much. I’m buried in it. And the woman from earlier? The one who I thought was color in all the grayscale? She was as false as Christmas cheer.
The scent of whiskey hits me again, and below that the mean pull of balsam and Christmas cookies.
What does it matter?
Screw it.