Rapscallion

God, I Hate Christmas

I'm awoken by the sound of little feet pounding down the complex hall and the excited shrieks of children.

"Oh for God's sake," I mutter, fruitlessly trying to muffle the sound by smushing a pillow over my head. But even Edgar is excited, frolicking around the room like a puppy—which might be cute if he didn't sound like an elephant and take out my lamp with his tail.

"Shush, Edgar," I groan, but he jumps up on my bed and nearly suffocates me with a hundred pounds of fur.

I gasp for air. "Ok, ok, I'm up." I spit out a mouthful of hair and struggle to prop myself up on my elbows, which is easier said than done with a 130 pound dog on your chest. He's undeterred by my glare—his eyes sparkle and his tail is wagging so hard it stings when it smacks my leg. I'm sure if he was a kid, he'd be running down the halls and screaming too.

I guess I can't blame them. It is Christmas, after all.

I glance at the clock and drag a hand over my face. Eight-thirty. I feel sick as I look back at Edgar, now sitting on me motionlessly instead of squirming around. His tail is still. He's looking at me the way only a dog can—with those big brown eyes and little eyelashes that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside because you know your dog will always be your friend. I sigh and bury my hands in his fur as I look up at the flaking popcorn ceiling.

I'd hoped to sleep through this day, but I'm awake now. Might as well get up.

Throwing back the covers and setting my feet on the ground is harder than it usually is.

I strip and jump straight into the shower, turning the knob all the way into the red zone in an effort to burn it away—that weird hollow feeling in my chest.

Today is the five year anniversary of my parent's death. Today will be the fourth Christmas I've spent alone.

I slam a fist into the blue tile hard enough to make my knuckles bleed and stand beneath the steaming water, watching a trickle of blood go down the drain.

By the time I get out of the shower the steam is thick and my skin is bright red. When I swipe at the mirror and am greeted by the sight of red eyes as well, I tell myself it's because of all the alcohol I drank last night.

I pull on pants without bothering to dry my hair and shuffle out to start the coffee.

I'd never bothered to decorate my one roomed apartment. Last year I tried, but it only made it worse to wake up to a tree with no one to enjoy it with and look at christmas lights when you feel like a Grinch. No, the room looks like it always does—a small kitchen with a bar and two stools instead of a table, and a living room with a couch, an ugly purple armchair, and a beat up coffee table. I tug back the curtains set over the single window.

"Look at that, Edgar. A White Christmas."

The glass is cold on my fingers and fogs up with my breath. I stare down at my city, covered in a fine powder of snow. Philadelphia is quiet, my view of Carver St. revealing only a few chilly pigeons. Nobody's out this early on Christmas morning.

Maybe that's why as soon as the coffee's done brewing I fill a mug with the black liquid and grab my coat. "Come on fella," I say, clipping his leash on. "Let's get outta here."

It's almost strange, walking down the streets of Philadelphia in near silence. I think I've seen a total of three people so far — all loners like me, wandering around like they're lost in a cornfield. I can relate.

Snow still floats to the ground, covering up the tracks of a large mutt and a human whose footprints occasionally disappear because I'm too lazy to move around a telephone pole. Edgars leash is wrapped around my hand and I concentrate on carefully tilting my steaming coffee cup to avoid dumping it all over the snow as he pulls me to an unknown place. I love to take Edgar for walks because he's usually the one to pick the destination—I just follow and let my mind wander at will. He tows me across the street and then around a corner. I swear the dog knows this city better than I do.

It feels good to be out and have the cold air on my face and hear the crunch of snow beneath my boots, but there's no escaping Christmas. Strains of Michael Buble's christmas album float down from above and colorful lights decorate every damn house on the street. By the time I've counted twelve nativity scenes and fifteen Santas, I decide that it might be best if I limit my gaze to my feet and try not to think of that night.

That wretched snowy night of a phone call, of rushing out of my flat with nothing but my keys and wallet, of a silent drive filled only with the sound of my beating heart and squealing tires. The night of the longest wait of my life, spent in a cold, white hospital.

I suck in a breath, hold it for five counts, and let it out.

Just walk, I tell myself. I glance up from my feet and am met with my own reflection in a window. Black hair that practically sticks up on end and crazed eyes stare back at me. I'm more interested in the flashing sign in the window than my own reflection though— Marjorie's Coffee: Open - it reads. I smooth my hair back and wiggle my empty coffee cup. Might as well get a refill. "Come on, Edgar."

I push open the door and a little jingle accompanies the warmth and smell of coffee that meets me. I can't help but pause as my eyes travel across the interior.

Books. Books everywhere, lining the walls from bar to ceiling all the way around. The small room is lit by at least ten different lamps, all different shapes and sizes and colors. A few tables, also mismatched and somehow endearing, clutter the room. The coffee bar is set against the back wall, the menu a giant corkboard scattered with Polaroid photos and neat cursive script. A middle aged guy sits at the bar to my left, his nose buried in a book and hand wrapped around a mug.

The girl at the counter had her back turned to me and was washing dishes when I walked in, providing me with only a glimpse of thick brown hair messily tied up. When she turns aside to grab a towel, her hands dripping and soap bubbles up to her elbows, I get one of those deer-in-the-headlights feelings.

Damn it. Of course this would happen to me.

Still drying her hands, she looks up at me from behind dark eyelashes clean of makeup and smiles wearily.

Please don't recognize me.

I meet those deep blue eyes reluctantly and do my best to return her grin. "Open on Christmas day, huh?"

Her smile grows even more strained. "I suppose someone's got to be open for those in need of a fresh cup of coffee on Christmas morning, huh? What can I get you?"

I try not to linger on the sound of her voice, or the way she tucks a stray strand of chocolate hair behind her ear as she says it. I slide my mug across the counter towards her. "Could you just fill it with black coffee please?"

She nods. "No problem." Edgar gives a violent shake next to me and she peers over the counter.

"Oh—I'm so sorry," I start, completely forgetting the common policy of tying dogs outside of stores, "I'll go tie him—"

"Is that a Newfie?" she interrupts me, her eyes lighting up.

"I... yeah, he is."

"Ahhhh," she croons, leaning over the counter so far her feet lift off the ground. "Can I pet him?" she asks, like a shy little kid.

I grin. "I think Edgar would be offended if I said no."

She hurries around the counter, pushing through the half door and leaving it swinging behind her. Edgar thumps his tail eagerly and his pink tongue makes an appearance when she gets down on her knees and gives him a cuddle, her grin no longer weary. She glances up at me and our eyes meet, her eyes like deep ocean waters.

"Thanks," she tells me, ruffling Edgars ears one last time before she stands. "I kind of needed that." Her cheeks are rosy.

I tug a hand through my hair. "Glad to see I'm not the only one having that kind of Christmas."

She tilts her head at me, messy bangs falling into her eyes. "You lose someone too?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah. Kind of... dampens the mood." I try for a smile, but I'm sure it's a pathetic one.

She slips back behind the counter and grabs my mug, pouring dark coffee up to the brim. "Coffee always helps, right?"

"Damn straight," I reply, reaching for my wallet.

She squints at me. "You know, you look really familiar but I can't think of why."

Damn it.