A Stocking Full of Romance

“Cheers,” he says.

Our glasses clink. I take a huge mouthful of wine to chase away the memories. But the alcohol washes through my mind and releases a floodgate of feelings. They travel through me to the tips of my fingers and the roots of my hair. I’m crackling with us.

And we talk. We fill in six years’ worth of tales. He tells me of his marriage and how it ended. I tell him of the boyfriends that have come and gone. We’re back in synch, we talk until the Santas, and Elves, the shoppers and the office workers have gone. Tinsel droops above us and Slade is wishing us a Merry Christmas.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks as we stand facing each other outside the pub.

“Of course.” I tuck my hand in his arm and keep close for warmth.

My legs match his in rhythm and stride, like a long ago dance that I suddenly remember the steps to.

And we wander the streets, under sparkling lights that pick out cartoon characters, pass windows full of ribbons and velvet and snow. All the while releasing memories that grow more and more substantial. It feels as if we are being followed by an army of him and me, driving us onwards.

Reaching my front door our conversation pauses, but I don’t want it to end. It’s been too long without him here; I’m not ready for him to leave. He follows me up the stairs, holds the door for me. I put on Christmas music and as we sit on the sofa, I realise we’ve been holding hands.

I don’t know when it happened, but it feels right. My hand was made to be held by his. It is home.

“So,” I ask my old flame, “what do you want for Christmas?”

He is silent for a moment looking at our clasped hands.

“You. It is all I’ve ever wanted.”

My hand twitches in his. A spasm as it opens and closes, in time with my heart’s door slamming open after years locked tight.

His words are a key, and as I open up everything that was buried within me flows out in a mad rush.

First come the tears I cried during the nights after he left. The pain when he told me I scared him but in a good way. The helplessness that swamped me when I realised that there was nothing that I could do but let him go. And then, as all the detritus of us washes through and out, they clear and carve a route for the future.

“You broke my heart,” I say.

He nods and looks at me pleading, his face tense and sad.

“Do it again and I’ll kill you.”

He looks momentarily confused and then when he understands what I’ve said, he lights up.

I lean forward and within a millimetre of his lips I whisper.

“Merry Christmas.”

The End

Secret Santa (#ufaa1da21-4705-50a2-9474-e2f7038e6368)

I stared at the name on the little slip of paper I’d been given.

Matt Allen.

Just the name of the person that I had to buy a Secret Santa gift for. But it was also the name of the man I’d been fantasising about ever since he’d started working in the office back in October.

Even reading his name made the paper in my hand quiver.

I can still remember the exact moment I first saw him. It was a Monday morning the week before Halloween. I’d sailed in, heading straight to my desk in our offices that were right above a coffee shop in Covent Garden. And there was someone sat in my seat.

I checked my steps and then slowly approached. He had hair like a newly minted penny.

“Hi?” I said, standing behind him.

He swung round in my chair and stood up. He wasn’t tall but his broad shoulders filled out his suit.

“Hello.” His Scottish burr flowed through me like a shot of whisky and went straight to my knees. I quickly leant on the table to keep myself from falling at his feet.

“Matt Allen.” he said, as he stuck out his hand.

Mute, I held mine out and it was engulfed in a solid strong and warm grip. Sparks shot through me and like that, I was a goner.

And now I was his Secret Santa.

“So who have you got?” I had thought his name and he appeared. If only I could extend the magic to making him fall for me.

I quickly crumpled the paper in my fist.

“It is called ‘Secret Santa’, Matt. The clue is in the word ‘secret’.”

“Well I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Honestly, his smile should be registered as a lethal weapon. When it curled up at the corners like that I felt as if he was holding a loaded gun to my heart, holding it for ransom.

“What do you want for Christmas?” I deflect him as best I could, whilst a little voice inside my head whispered me, me, me.

“Ah, what does every man want for Christmas? A fast car and a fast woman.”

He winked at me and smoothed his tie down over his chest.

“And what about you, Emma? What do you want?”

I wanted to be that fast woman.

But who was I kidding? I was about as fast as a nun in a broken down mini.

“I want to be surprised.” I said, for lack of any sane answer.

“I’m sure you will be, hen.”

He smiled a bit broader and sauntered off.

I smoothed out the Secret Santa paper, his name was still there. Well, the only fast anything I could get him with the ten pound gift limit would be a large family sized bucket from KFC.