Page 157 of Again, In Autumn

Do we scream?

Do we cry?

“Oh my God,” Santa says. His hands move toward me. Away from me. They stick out in the air like tree branches, one gripping a paper cup. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

I finally glance down at my sweater. It looks as though I’ve been slashed open and bleed espresso, the beautiful cable knit stitches dirty and mocking. When something beautiful becomes stained, it looks even more trashed by comparison. I bite back my lips. In pain, my eyes squeeze shut.

“It’s fine,” I grit.

“I didn’t see you –”

“It’s fine,” I repeat.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

I add, “Just an accident.”

That’s the truth. I’m covered in hot coffee for the moment, but my sweater will clean, fingers crossed, and this day will be over. I glance around at the people casting us looks and reiterate, “Really, it’s completely fine.”

He looks around frantically. “Um –” he rushes toward a trashcan and dumps the coffee cup “– let me at least get you a new shirt.”

I shake out my hand, which took some of the splatter, then pluck the wet sweater from my skin. “It’s not necessary,” I argue.

“It is,” he insists.

“I’m just going to go.”

“Please.” He’s tall, this Santa. He leans toward me, and earnest blue eyes are the only visible part of his face under a long, blonde beard. He’s very close to my face. A red sweater billows over his large stomach as his prayer hands urge, “Let me buy you a new shirt.”

“This is a sweater,” I point out.

“A shirt and a dry cleaning bill.”

“It’s not necessary.”

He looks down at himself. “You can have my sweater! I bathed today, and this is brand-new. My friend bought it, he has very expensive taste.”

“It won’t suit me. I don’t have a bowl full of jelly,” I say.

He smooths it over his stomach and mumbles, “Neither do I…”

I begin to walk away, but Santa hurries in step with me. He taps my arm lightly and points to a festival booth with handmade knit sweaters. He asks, “What about that?”

I keep up my walk, stating, “Not my color.”

“Okay…” He hurries off and picks up a printed T-shirt that says, Snow’s Out Ho’s Out. “How about this?”

“Are you calling me a hoe?” I ask, stepping out of a golden retriever’s path.

He glances at the shirt and grimaces. “Whoops.”

I bite back a laugh, and he comes back beside me. I stop walking and face him, shielding my eyes from the sun, and say, “This is where we go our separate ways.”

Santa bites his bottom lip, I can see that much under beard hair, and his eyes thin, darting between mine. He’s large in the crowd of passersby, the word hulking comes to mind. Even ducking his head, he’s wide and high, imposing and emphasized. I wonder what’s under all of that hair. At that dollar store hat.

He sighs. “I don’t know about that. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve caused you offense. I’m bound to you by the laws of…well, I don’t know. Sidewalk etiquette?”

“Look, I appreciate the sentiment Santa, I do, but I have to track down my friend. It’s urgent.” I sidestep away from him and call out over my shoulder, “Merry Christmas!”

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