24

After the chairlift incident we didn’t leave the chalet.

Chris didn’t learn how to ski, but I learned a whole lot. It was a week of re-discovering my body and my confidence, and being introduced to pleasures I never knew existed.

As we drive up towards the house now, I feel like a new woman.

“What are you smiling about?” Chris asks as I pull into the driveway.

“You.”

“I’m very happy to be the one to put the smile back on your face, Merri.”

I stop the car and turn to him.

“Chris, I don’t think I’ve really stopped smiling since you fell through my roof.”

“Bullshit.”

“No bullshit this time.”

“Merri, I’m hard-pressed to believe anything you say after you’ve spent the drive trying to convince me that hardware stores are officially banning men as of midnight.”

I grin.

“Ah, says the man who told me that angel dicks taste of cotton candy.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” he laughs.

I stare at him.

“You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“Your laugh. It’s changed.”

“Is it strange?”

“Ah, it’s recognisable, that’s for sure.”

“Recognisable?”

“Chris,” I giggle, “You sound like Santa.”

“Bullshit.”

A strange thought occurs to me.

“Ah, you know how you said your kind made all sorts of celebrations for people to encourage joy and selflessness. Is Christmas one of those celebrations?”

“Yes, why?”

“Um, is Santa, or was Santa, an angel?”

He nods slowly, his expression changing from confusion, to disbelief, and finally, concern.

“Chris…”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Just no.”

“But you said you don’t know why you were sent down here… could it be possible you were sent down here to become Santa?”

“It can’t be,” he groans.

“But your name…”

“Jesus Christ!” He runs his hands through his hair in agitation. “I sure as shit hope you’re wrong. Beards itch, and I loathe little people.”

“Same,” I laugh, “except my own, and my grandchildren. Although I’ll freely admit that even they can be little monsters sometimes.”

I stop talking and stare at him wide-eyed as the ramifications of our discussion begin to sink in and I notice his expression.

“You think I was sent to Earth to learn how to build things for children?” He whispers.

“Santa’s workshop,” I whisper back. “That’s probably why you have an obsession with hardware.”

He frowns shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it an obsession...”

“Chris you’ve visited this hardware store almost every day! Not to mention your propensity to renovate, build, construct, tinker with, pull apart. If I’m right and you’re being prepared to take over the role of Santa, you need to learn how to run a workshop, among other things… holy shit! You’re meant to be Santa!”

“Ho, fucking, ho,” he mutters.