John Plaski
There’s only so many times a person can listen to “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” before unholy rage fully consumes them.
Just play A Charlie Brown Christmas and The Nutcracker once through, add “Feliz Navidad” in between to spice things up, and call it a holiday. Besides, “Christmas at the Airport” and “Hard Candy Christmas” both sound like songs you’d play over an outbreak of the plague: one at the tavern full of desperate mead-drinkers, the other inside the boarded-up houses with crosses painted on their shutters.
A Christmas song either fills hearts with love and cheer, or makes partygoers pour bleach into the punch bowl: wishing peace and goodwill towards all, or declaring there is one fewer light in the universe and everybody needs to hear the full report in excruciating detail.
And my signal to jump into action is “The Little Drummer Boy.” That song comes on tonight while I’m stuck behind the counter at Any-Hour Pizza, and I’m grabbing one of the barstools lined up across from me and chucking it through the front window.
The corporate logo stamped on the glass crumbles as napkin dispensers that don’t dispense napkins properly tumble to the floor. Twinkling shards litter the sidewalk while some skitter all the way to the other side of the street and glitter accusingly beneath the archway leading inside Catholic Sanctuary Cemetery.
But this is just the prelude: the second stool will be my melee weapon. Send the soda fountain standing in the corner to the junkyard before beating all the pizzas displayed along the counter into a doughy, saucy massacre of cheese and pepperoni and Hawaiian and vegan margherita. Snap the cash register in half, then charge the front door and tear it from its hinges.
And stumbling outside like some resurrected caveman, see all the restaurants along Grayson Avenue smothered with Christmas lights and declare war on everything that came after 12,000 BC before loping off into the cemetery.
But don’t worry: I’ll make sure to bring the bodies along with me for a snack. George, with his terrible taste in Christmas music. Josephine, who always calls in late to ask for days off but still gets them because George thinks he has a chance of boning her if he says yes enough times. Ronnie and Katie and Rebecca and Wenxin, who don’t deserve to be torn to pieces, but every tragedy needs collateral damage.
And Aiden, who walks in wearing that same shit-smeared grin from all his profile pictures. If only he realized what horrors he had wrought before a barstool leg sails through his eye socket and out the back of his head.
And don’t forget the bodies of all those other smiling, over-eager bastards and bitches, who are all slightly too old or young or far away. (I swear the age and distance preferences on my dating app never work properly, but nobody ever believes me.)
And faced with this wild thing in a loincloth, brandishing a length of Formica like a fire-hardened club, all their humorous quips and candid confessions and tastefully-cropped photos fall silent.
It’s a bloodbath in the end. And lying at the bottom of this heap of limbs, beneath the carpet of gore staining these checkerboard tiles, is me. An emptied skin, a pair of too-thick glasses, and my outfit for the day: a black tank-top, a polka-dotted skirt that reminds me of Yayoi Kusama, and a pair of grey leggings with black Converse speckled with rock salt.
“Pretty slow night, huh?
I blink, and the restaurant recombobulates in front of me. It’s empty, just like it has been all afternoon. The only difference is outside. Past the orangey streetlights, the Catholic Sanctuary Cemetery looks like outer space after several trillion more years of spinning: not a speck of light to be seen. Then, I stare down at my arms resting on the counter. The fluorescent bulbs dye them a sickly shade of green.
“Still no phone calls?”
“Not a single one.”
George leans through the order window behind me, trying to stare at my ass. Or trying to see what’s on my phone, which is open in my hand as a surfer dude smiles up at me, transplanted from sunburnt California to frostbitten Michigan: his name is Hugh, and he wants to tell me all about his crazy weekend in Vancouver last summer.
“It’s never been this slow before.”
George tries to make conversation as he whines and plays with the bell dangling from his red-and-green elf hat. Meanwhile, Hugh reminds me of stormy coastlines where husbands returning from long ocean voyages can’t stop crashing onto the rocks. He’s also from San Francisco, so I can’t help but think about monstrous, blubbery seals and rusty, bird-shit-covered piers either.
I firmly tap X, and up pops Serenity.
“People hate cooking, even on Christmas Eve. And it’s cold out. Pizza’s just the thing to warm you up!”
“For sure,” I mutter, closely inspecting Serenity.
She has long blonde hair with bright orange tips. She smiles in all of her photos but never shows her teeth: either she’s reserved, or she’s never gotten them fixed. She’s twenty-eight, four years older than me but only one year older than Hugh.
“Or maybe you don’t celebrate Christmas!”
George shouts at the empty restaurant surrounding us on all sides.
“And that’s okay! We accept everybody!”
Katie once said something about dating a person younger than you: cut your own age in half, then add seven. So, if Serenity follows this rule (which she probably doesn’t), I have to compete for her attention alongside an army of lusty twenty-one-year-olds.
“You’re working Monday, right?”
“Yeah. With Ronnie and Josephine.”
“Actually…”
George speaks slowly as he scratches the silver whiskers painted across his neck.
“Josie called in this morning. It’s just going to be you and Ronnie. But you’ll get Christmas overtime for today and Monday. If that’s cool with you.”
Nobody smiles with Serenity in any of her photos. She probably wouldn’t want to be seen with me either. Sure, I’ve gotten likes and comments from nice people and weirdos, but it’s pretty obvious that people in general are put off by me.
“Sounds good,” I sigh.
“Cool.”
George straightens up with a jangle and an old-man grunt.
“And thanks again for picking up more shifts this week. We really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
I’m too tall, for one thing. Hugh’s an inch shorter than me while Serenity lacks two of them, plus a full foot. And some days, looking in the mirror or scrolling through my camera roll, I can’t escape the fact that I’m meat encircling bones. I’m usually fine with the amount of meat but would appreciate smaller quantities of bones from time to time.
My stubble is another point of contention for some as well, but Aiden seemed totally cool with both variables, at first. He wanted the lights off during our first time together, but I convinced him that a candle would make a perfect addition. He didn’t insist on one thing coming off before the other. And afterward, he seemed perfectly content to lie there and stare at the ceiling as I laid my head on his bicep and traced my fingers along his ribcage; I liked the hardness of it but didn’t want to use my whole hand and reveal how chapped it was from washing pizza pans that morning. I didn’t want my hands going anywhere near Aiden’s face either, in case he smelled pepperoni on them or the wet clots of dough that I fished out of the drain earlier that day. He was only twenty-five and an inch taller than me, and I had left a lengthy comment on a photo of him sitting by a campfire while I was leaving work one night. He liked it the next morning, and we agreed to go out for drinks that evening, after I was done with my shift.
And now I cut out Aiden and paste in Serenity. A lot of it plays out the same: she smiles wryly at the cracked pane of glass in the front door of my apartment building, just like Aiden that first time he came over. But how would she fill the space inside? The too-small kitchen, the too-big living room with only a too-cheap couch and too-expensive coffee table? Or the bedroom that looks better with the lights off? (Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown Hugh away so quickly.)
I tap the side of the plastic jug labeled “TIPS” and don’t hear much rattling inside. It’s all a scam anyway. It’s fishing with your own hacked-off finger on the hook. It’s a ghoul breaking
into a mausoleum and cramming a leathery heart into its saw-toothed maw. (And selling pizza for four dollars per slice doesn’t make me feel any better about myself either.)
The front door opens as I sit and stew, and an icy breeze rolls in, lifting the hairs on my arms in waves from wrists to shoulders. I look up from Serenity, and it’s a guy much shorter than me and at least a year younger. He wears an olive-green knit cap pulled tight against his skull with several curls of tar-colored hair poking out from under it like octopus tentacles. His face, a shade lighter than mine, is an oval while his eyes tip inward towards his nose: the right one’s a centimeter steeper in its incline than the other.
He also wears a denim jacket, unbuttoned, with a woolly grey sweater underneath. His khakis are torn at the knees, and his hiking boots add at least another inch to his height.
“Welcome to Any-Hour Pizza!”
George shouts from the window behind me.
“Essie here will take your order whenever you’re ready!”
“Thanks.”
The stranger speaks softly as he steps forward, frowning at either the cold clinging to him or the bright lights overhead. His cheeks and upper lip are raked with thin black hairs as he gives me a half-second smile that favors his right side.
Blushing, I quickly put my phone away, wash my hands (back fully turned so my heartbeat can slow down in private), and grab a pan from under the counter.
“If you have any questions!” I say too loudly. “Let me know!”
“Thanks. Will do.”
The pizzeria resumes its crypt-like silence. George vanishes from the window behind me, now that there’s another body in the room. I don’t want to freak this new guy out, but I have to
look ready to serve at a moment’s notice. So, I swallow hard and study him intently as he stands a good eight feet away, inspecting the massive pizzas between us with that same suffering expression from when he walked in.
He has several layers on, but he seems relatively well-built: at least he’s not flaunting his abs like Hugh with a tank top slit down the sides, or a too-small t-shirt struggling to contain the sheer glory of his pecs and traps.
He wears clothes that flatter him too. He’s not trying to hide anything, unlike Aiden playing the wallflower in his own button-down shirts: cutesy-cozy turned out to be someone retreating inside kitschy patterns and excessive amounts of flannel. The rips across his knees are the proper amount of causal imperfection: no salt or grit on him, but nothing starched or ironed either.
And at least he’s not dyed to the hilt like Serenity. He smiled too quickly for me to see his teeth, and his hands are stowed in his jacket pockets, so I can’t tell how clean his nails are, or if they’re painted. (Or if he still has all of his fingers.) Regardless, I’m willing to trust the odds on the latter.
“Do you want a rundown of all the pizzas!”
“Sorry?”
He looks up, and his eyes are a somber brown, like cocoa mixed with ashes.
“Do you want a rundown of all the pizzas?” I repeat, quieter instead of clearer.
“Sure.”
My throat dries out the moment I walk to the end of the counter and gesture downward with my gleaming pan
“First we have cheese. Then pepperoni, sausage with onion and black olive, and our pepperoni and sausage combo.”
My voice sounds like an untuned soprano saxophone, but I have to keep talking. I slide backwards a step, heart fluttering as my eyes quickly dart from these lukewarm pizzas to this stranger who only turns his head to follow me.
“Next we have barbeque chicken, Hawaiian, and grilled chicken with pesto.”
Deftly wielding my pan, I also feel like a Spartan left behind to sell used cars to housewives who could easily kick my ass. The blush rises from my chest to my cheeks while the goosebumps sprouting in rows down my arms aren’t going anywhere either.
“And these are our specials for the month: hot-pepper-salami, taco, and Christmas Feast!”
Finished, I stand at attention and can’t help smiling: I recited everything perfectly. I keep my eyes locked on my audience, hoping George heard the whole thing from the back while he was texting Josephine.
“What’s Christmas Feast?” The stranger asks.
“Um. Turkey sausage. Sage stuffing. And cranberry relish.”
“Huh…”
He frowns, and I answer with my hardest grin yet.
“It’s pretty good!”
“I’ll just take two slices of pepperoni.”
“Sounds great!”
I pull the slices onto the pan with a showy smile, throw open the oven door with a theatrical bang, slide the order inside, and shut everything up with another flashy finale.
My cheeks ache.
“Anything to drink?”
I glide towards the register, resisting the urge to add a spin along the way.
“No thanks.”
“It’ll be nine-fifty.”
I watch his hands closely as he pulls out his wallet: all ten fingers, no nail polish. Next, I scan his wallet’s interior for an ID (or the corner of a condom wrapper); he hands me a ten-dollar bill instead of a credit card. And only briefly discouraged, I languidly gather his change.
“You can put it in the jar,” he says.
“Thanks.”
And with one trap already sprung as the quarters loudly cascade to the bottom of the jug, I pounce again.
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“What’s your name!”
I raise my voice this time, even though coins aren’t clanging in the background.
“For when it’s ready?”
He looks around, then smiles with half his face.
“Jair,” he says, stepping away from the counter.
“Cool.”
I nod as I retreat towards the ovens.
“My name’s Essie.”
“I know. Nice to meet you, Essie.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
Silence again. And exhausted from all this eye contact, I pull out my phone and unlock it. I quickly push Serenity aside and encounter Tiffany next: twenty-one, redhead, full-time student. Unkempt body hair is a major red flag for her, so I quickly tap X and pocket my phone.
The pizza’s ready anyway. I lay both slices on a paper plate and slide it across the counter to Jair like a proper waitress.
“Hope you enjoy!”
I slam the over door shut with a smile, but no second grin materializes from Jair.
“I ordered two pepperoni.”
“Huh?”
Two slices of sausage pizza sit and steam accusingly on the counter.
The future caves in before my very eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” I cry.
It sounds fake coming from me, but I am sorry. I grab another pan and scurry back to the far end of the pizza line-up.
“It’s okay,” Jair says. “I’m fine with these.”
“No, I’m sorry!”
Now I’m shouting, and my voice and eyebrows are raised too high as well.
“I wasn’t thinking!”
Two slices of pepperoni pizza are slapped on the pan, and the pan flies into the oven: same routine, now fast-forwarded for tragicomic effect.
“I’m fine with sausage,” Jair insists, pulling the plate towards him.
“Are you sure?”
I hover by the oven for safety reasons.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s really no problem!”
“I appreciate the effort, though.”
“No problem!”
Paper plate cupped with both hands, Jair turns and shuffles toward a seat facing the cemetery: he sets his plate down, pulls out his stool, and climbs on top. And once his back is firmly turned in my direction, I dash into the bathroom.
It’s single-occupant, so I lock the door behind me and hope George, or some random drunk wandering by, doesn’t need to take a piss. Or, if Jair needs somewhere to dump his incorrect order, he’ll do it in the gutter outside.
I don’t want to look in the mirror, and if I get too close to the toilet I might throw up, so I stand with my back pressed against the door and stare at the wastebasket half-filled with crumpled paper towels. The wood glued to my bare shoulders isn’t even cold; George has been cranking the heat all week, so the walls and floor and utensils all feel like sculptures fashioned from rigid human flesh.
And fully encased, with nowhere to go, I slowly count to ten several times, each ascending number containing an inhale-to-three and an exhale-to-four.
And when I emerge from the bathroom, smoke is oozing from the seams of the oven door. Jair, hunched over his pizza by the window, hasn’t noticed my entrance nor the smoke crawling into the ductwork.
I run over and wrench open the door. White clouds streaked with black billow past my face as my glasses instantly fog up. I reach inside with my pan and pull out two carbonized slices
of pepperoni pizza: not charcoal yet, but definitely resembling smoked cedar chips. I throw these sizzling relics onto the counter, onto a paper plate already set out, and slam the oven door shut.
I breathlessly whip my head towards Jair and peer through the mist coating my lenses. Still no reaction from him, nor the back of his head, but he probably saw it all through his reflection anyway.
“Can I go on break, George?”
I shout behind me, my eyes locked onto the nape of Jair’s neck.
“Sure. Just take out the trash before you go.”
I’m already on the other side of the counter when George yells from somewhere in the back. Two hunks of charcoal teeter in one hand as I swiftly approach three curls of tar-colored hair.
“Can I sit here?”
Jair swivels in his seat. And after looking around, he stares up at me.
“Sure,” he says, pulling out the stool next to him. “It’s your restaurant anyway.”
“I just work here.”
I climb atop my stool and set down my pizza.
“But thanks.”
Jair glances at my slices for only a second before returning to his own. The first one has vanished, and now he takes small bites out of the tip of the second.
“How’s your pizza?”
“It’s good,” he says, focusing on the meal in front of him.
“You don’t have to butter me up, by the way. I’m not super loyal about this place.”
“I’m telling you it’s good.”
Mouth full, Jair snorts as he points at my blackened slices.
“What about those? Better or worse than the Christmas Feast?”
My throat is even drier than before as I lift one rigid piece of pizza to my lips; it crackles in my hands like kindling. There’s a whiff of arson as I open my mouth, then a tasteless crunch like glass and the rattling of pebbles past my teeth.
I swallow after several chews and try not to cough.
“It’s not that bad,” I say lightly. “Besides, I’ve always liked things a little crispier.”
“Good to know.”
I quickly set down my wedge of slate as Jair smirks and takes another untarnished bite. Everything suddenly feels warmer, as if all the fuel in my stomach has ignited and black smoke is belching from my nostrils.
I glance out the window in front of me. Beyond the chain-link fence across the street, the hills of the Catholic Sanctuary Cemetery are black; those closest to us are studded with obelisks and crosses that glow peachy-white under the streetlights. The gatehouse is painted baby-blue, looking like a Victorian mansion halfway through its transformation into a welcoming archway.
“How long have you been working here?” Jair asks, already finishing his second slice.
“A couple years.”
I try to sound like tonight’s sausage-and-pepperoni performance was just a fluke.
“Cool. Are you in school right now?”
I feel a knot tighten in my stomach, but I’m not sure if it’s from thinking about school, breaking down the hunk of carbon in my gut, or seeing the forking paths materializing in front of me: which life will I choose from tonight?
“Nope. I just work right now.”
“And do you still live with your parents? Or do you have roommates?”
A second knot tightens, higher in my chest than the first.
“I have a place all to myself, actually.”
“That must be nice.”
Jair folds his paper plate in half, then into quarters; the yellow grease stains make it look like a Rorschach test.
“I like it a lot. I appreciate the quiet, but it gets pretty lonely sometimes.”
My eyes drift towards my reflection in the window, and I see an obelisk rising from the center of my forehead.
“Are you from around here?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Cool.”
I study the chrome napkin dispenser sitting between us.
“I’ve never seen you in here before…”
“It’s actually my first time,” Jair says, pulling a napkin from the cube and covering it with bright streaks. “I walk by here all the time, but this is the first time I actually came in.”
“Nice.”
I grab a napkin for myself, but only half of it comes out.
“What was different this time?” I ask.
I hope for a guilty glance in my direction, but Jair stares up at the sky instead: starless, cloudy, so saturated with light that it’s a warmer shade of grey than the silhouettes of the buildings underneath.
“It was cold out, and I wanted something to eat.
He begins folding his greasy napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
“And I didn’t feel like going home and heating something up.”
“I totally get that.”
I tear up my napkin, streaked with black, and begin rolling it into tinier and tinier spheres.
“Christmas Eve isn’t the time of year for microwaves.”
“Definitely not.”
Silence a third time. The counter is soon littered with miniscule dalmatian eggs, and I quickly sweep them onto my plate. This all has to look natural, accomplished in one fluid motion as I sigh and look elsewhere.
“Where do you live, by the way?”
Watching my gathering of the eggs, Jair’s eyes snap towards my face.
“You don’t have to answer that, if you don’t want to,” I quickly add, standing up with a plate stacked high with black dough and paper spawn. “But I was kind of hoping you lived close by…”
I hurry over to the trash can and throw everything away.
“Because I was just about to get off work soon, and it’s Christmas Eve, and I’ve been dreading the thought of going back to my place alone.”
I gather the edges of the garbage bag and slowly pull it from the bin, like extracting a giant’s tooth from its pulpy socket.
“And I was hoping, seeing you, alone at a pizza place on Christmas Eve, that’d you want to take me home. Or let me take you home…”
The bin finally lets go of the bag, and I shake its contents around before tying it off. I haven’t glanced at Jair once since I stood up and started talking.
“I just broke up with someone, and I wasn’t planning on spending Christmas Eve alone.”
Still not looking at him, I trot behind the counter and emerge with a fresh liner.
“And I’m not saying that we have to spend all of Christmas together, but I was hoping one of these days this week would be with someone…”
I massage the liner open, then shake it out with a thunderous swishing that fills the restaurant. And once things quiet down, I apply the new bag to the inside of the bin.
“And you can set limits on what that means. We could cuddle on the couch and watch TV. Or we can just stand in the kitchen and eat leftover pizza. But I would like to have sex with you. I think.”
Finished, I shove the bin back into position and throw the full garbage bag over my shoulder: plastic film crinkles behind my left ear, along with the clunking of an empty soda can.
“Or, I could walk you to your place and not even come in. Or you don’t even have to do that. You can say no and walk out right now, thinking I’m just some crazy person. But I still appreciate you sitting there and letting me get this off my chest. And I hope I haven’t scared you away from Any-Hour Pizza. It’s a nice place.”
I turn towards Jair, hoping he’s still there. And he stares back at me, still perched on his stool, greasy plates and napkins piled beside his elbow. A couple seconds pass before he lobs everything into the freshly-emptied garbage can with a pained expression.
“Can you give me a minute to think about it?”
“Sure.”
“You can take out the trash, and when you come back, I’ll tell you what I think.”
“Sure. Of course.”
I turn on my heel, trying to keep my knees from wobbling as I scratch one of my ears, and push open the front door. All the hairs on my arms stand at attention as the cold air squeezes my lungs in a vise; I want to go back in and grab my sweatshirt, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying to bend Jair’s rules.
I press onward and walk north, making sure to not glance at him through the windows either. Four parking spaces sit behind Any-Hour Pizza, beside a hulking navy-blue dumpster; I toss my garbage bag inside with a practice swing, letting it join its brethren from yesterday, before turning towards the shop and stopping myself mid-twist.
Jair needs more time to think, and I don’t want to look too desperate, so I stand and ripple from one foot to the other as the cold seeps through my stockings. I stare at the bars decked with Christmas lights across the street, then up at the sky overhead: a giant dead pupil, dyed a repulsive lavender. I check my phone: eleven-fifty, no new messages.
And once it changes to eleven-fifty-one, I put my phone away, forfeit my staring contest, and jog around the corner and throw open the front door. Glasses instantly painted over with white, I look up, and Jair’s still there, standing by the cash register. All the cold is wrung from my body in that instant.
“So?”
I’m suddenly aware that I’m flushing scarlet from my forehead down to my fingertips, and the muggy air in here instantly seals the breath inside my throat.
“How about we take a walk, and talk a little bit?” Jair says softly. “And if things go well, we can walk back to my place? Once you’re done here?”
I nod and waddle behind the counter to grab my sweatshirt.
“That sounds good,” I croak.
“Where would you want to go? Player’s choice.”
“Um…”
I straighten up, nose running as I slip on a black zip-up covered with an embarrassing number of patches.
“How about the cemetery?”
Jair turns and studies the darkness just beyond the glass and potholes.
“Is it nice?”
“Oh yeah!”
I zip up and covertly wipe my nose on my sleeve.
“I go there for walks all the time when I’m early for work.”
“Cool.”
Jair turns again as his eyes dart up and down my body.
“Ready to go?”
“Definitely!”
Not wanting him to see my patches and blotches, I dash around the counter as he holds open the door. I dive into the cold and darkness, immediately followed by Jair, who lets the door slam shut behind him.
We both stand at the corner of 56th and Grayson, look up and down the desolate avenue, then cross. My glasses clear up within seconds, but thick fog has rolled in, blurring the streetlights and curtained apartment windows. The asphalt and grass sparkle brightly underfoot: no snow so far, only frost.
And walking side-by-side, heads bent against the wintery air and our hands stuffed in our pockets, we step under the baby-blue archway. The rusted sign to my left says something about
Civil War veterans as the sidewalk turns into a gravel path that extends for a quarter-mile before branching off at right angles towards different plots.
Our feet make a handful of dull crunching sounds against the pebbles, but then Jair halts beneath the archway and stares down the main thoroughfare.
“It’s nice.”
He speaks in a reverent hush, and I stop a couple feet ahead of him and look back: I don’t want to outpace him, or look too eager about old tombstones.
“I know, right? It’s so peaceful.”
“You find cemeteries peaceful?”
“Yeah! You?”
Jair shuffles about inside his coat.
“Not really…”
I stare at all the colors surrounding him: the gatehouse’s white molding clashing with its soft blue siding, both filtered through foggy puce and feverish streetlight-orange. Then I stare at Jair and the colors soaking into his face. The hairs sprouting from his cheeks and poking out from under his hat are even blacker than before.
“Really?”
I walk back to him as casually as I can, doing something akin to a leisurely stroll.
“Yeah.”
My face tingles as static fills my chest.
“Why not?” I whisper
I’m so close to Jair, I could reach out with both hands and encircle him. My nose starts running again, but I can’t retreat. He looks up at me, eyes wide: he’s either terrified (like me) or in awe (of what?).
“Don’t you think it’s kind of creepy?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe something’s lurking out there?” He whispers.
“Like what?”
We stare each other down, both swaying like cobras hypnotizing their prey: one somber, the other smiling.
“I don’t know. Hellhounds? Ghouls?”
“Ghosts?” I hiss.
Jair’s eyes lock onto something behind me, but I can’t fall for this trick now.
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” He murmurs.
“Not really. Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Then I guess we’re safe.”
“From ghosts at least…”
Jair smiles up at me nervously.
“But what about vampires? Or weirdos who like fucking on top of dead bodies?”
Silence a fourth time. I listen for the crunching of gravel behind me, confirmation that someone (or something) is crawling amongst the gravestones and slowly creeping closer. But, when it never grabs me with its mossy claws, I press onward.
“I think we’re safe. No weirdos here.”
“You’re the one who suggested the cemetery.”
Jair’s eyes lock onto mine as he grins, his right side scrunching up more than his left.
“Well, if you’re still scared, maybe we should skip the walk and just go home?”
“But what about work?” He asks.
I peer over Jair’s head and through the archway. Any-Hour Pizza is a supernova amongst the streetlights and shuttered windows.
“If you don’t mind waiting till two, I can walk you home.”
Jair shifts his feet once, and the rasping of the gravel beneath his boots sends shivers down my back. Or maybe it’s because our faces are inches apart, and I’m suddenly aware of how bad my breath must smell: bits of carbonized pepperoni are probably stuck between my teeth right now.
“Or maybe I could walk you home?” Jair asks, laying his suggestion at my feet.
“Maybe you could.”
“Then what would we do?”
I freeze as the fog slinks around the corners of the archway. The silence, the longer it lasts, wraps itself tighter and tighter around me: I want to speak, but inexplicably can’t.
“Watch TV?”
I choke as I say this, dropping my suggestion on top of Jair’s with a splat.
“You have a TV?”
“No. It’s just a laptop.”
I’m standing too close to Jair to fold my arms, but I also don’t want to step back either.
“But I’ve got Netflix, Hulu, Mubi–”
“You mentioned sex. What about that?”
Jair doesn’t say it loudly, but that third word slices through the air like a shovel piercing frost-hardened soil. I smile awkwardly and smooth back my ponytail with one hand, glancing at the chipped blue walls of the archway.
“Um…”
I clear my throat, face already burning bright red.
“If you want. And if you’ll have me.”
“What are you into?”
I suddenly want strings of light and songs to flood the world, Christmas-related or not.
“I’m up for anything…”
I speak with a shrug that should look casual. Seasoned, but not disinterested.
“Cool.”
“What are you into?” I ask, being polite and reciprocating.
Jair smiles up at me as my voice splinters in the cold. His teeth are immaculate.
“I think I’m more of a top.”
“That works for me.”
“And doing it in front of a mirror is fun.”
“Yeah. Totally.”
“You have a mirror at your place?”
My mind, with my apartment layout stuffed inside, is suddenly blank.
“Yeah. It’s by the front door. But we can put it in the bedroom, if you want.”
“Awesome. And you have condoms, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. And, whether we’re doing it missionary, or doggystyle…”
stops and looks away, seemingly embarrassed. Meanwhile, I’m rooted to the earth, just another stone standing amongst thousands. And after a couple seconds, Jair looks back at me with that same square, fleshless grin.
“I want there to be a knife on the bed while we’re doing it.”
I hope for a musical cue, some kind of scare chord or long, low, ominous bass note, but there’s only silence.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think it’d make things more interesting having a knife there with us. At any moment, if either of us isn’t feeling it, whoever grabs the knife first gets first shot.”
Jair stares at me, not even blinking. His eyes have lost their ashy-cocoa color.
“Okay.”
I answer mechanically, and Jair laughs.
“It doesn’t have to be a ceremonial dagger, or anything too fancy. Just something like that big kitchen knife Norman Bates uses in Psycho. You’ve got one of those, right?”
“I’m sure I’ve got something like that.”
“You sure?”
Jair stares at me, still grinning, as my nose starts running even harder. Meanwhile, everything inside my head is clogged with cement.
“I’m pretty sure,” I finally mutter.
“Awesome.”
Jair glances at Any-Hour Pizza.
“I’m going to run back to my place and grab some other things, just in case,” he says. “Then I’ll be back at two to walk you home. That sound good?”
“I guess…”
I stare at Jair as he slowly backs onto the sidewalk: under the streetlights and surrounded by fog, he becomes an outline scribbled in with varying splotches of greys.
“See you, Essie.”
He whispers as he turns with a lingering, longing look and walks away. And once he vanishes, I step out from under the archway too. My eyes slowly drift towards Any-Hour Pizza across the street. I can see someone with long red hair standing inside and looking around, wondering where the hell everyone went.
I swallow with difficulty, my throat full of fog and burnt crust, and double-check my phone. Then I stare at all the lives I can choose from, picking from all these forking paths that won’t stop growing and withering and turning back upon themselves (even on a Christmas morning), considering what a good pruning must look like too, plus the first couple steps for heading down that particular avenue.