December 2023 | Christmas

Funny the way humans were stuck living in time. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. And holidays.

John was stuck in other ways, too. Stuck on a tiny island in the Pacific, ever since his sailboat had been blown off course by Hurricane Jamiroquai, or whatever it was. It had been two weeks, four days, and… nine hours? Since the wreck, that was.

But John was thinking about holidays. It was Christmas Eve. And even way out here, with a creeping sense of dread that he might never see another human soul for the rest of his days, he felt just a tad bit excited.

Tomorrow morning he would wake with the sun and cook the best of his rations: eggs, potatoes, and a generous portion of salted pork. He would sit and drink coffee sitting on his favorite rock under his favorite palm tree, staring out at that beautiful mass of blue that he loved so much—even if it didn’t love him back. 

Even if it didn’t care about seconds, minutes, hours, days, or Christmas.

Ben had to do it. Who cares that it was Christmas Eve? There was no more putting it off, no more forgetting important things on purpose to try to make her so mad she would do it for him, no more excuses, and no more watching the Polar Express.

Every dang year for the past three years she made him watch her favorite Christmas film with him. He was supposed to be on his way to watch it with her right now, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could see the scene in his head and practiced the lines as he drove.

There she was, on her velvet Wayfair uncomfortable couch, saying, “Hi Benji, I made us kettlecorn, come sit with me, I have hot chocolate.” He would rather be at home drinking whisky and eating cheese and crackers and watching Band of Brothers. But with her everything was sweet. So sweet it was unpalatable. Every year the same thing where she teared up. 

He tried to bring it up last year, about how it was cruel to push this agenda of believing in Santa on children like it was an important thing you miss out on to let go of when in reality it was better to prep them not to buy into bizarre conspiracy theories. Then they argued about how to raise kids again. Then they argued about having kids again.

But not this year. This year, he would walk right in and before she could offer him anything sweet he would say, “Danielle, it’s over. I can’t do this anymore.” And leave her and the Polar Express behind forever. 

He turned the radio on to try to stave off any nerves that might keep him from having the courage from doing what must be done. “White Christmas” was halfway through, prompting Ben to notice for the first time how foggy it was this night. He was pretty sure the dense white cloud that enveloped his car was not the kind of weather Big Crosby was referring to.

The fog seemed to get even denser, the country road barely visible to him as he made his way to Danielle’s. “I’ve been in a fog for three years,” he told himself. A fog of being with someone he didn’t like very much just because it was convenient. He sped up, trying to make up for the lost time. 

The fog seemed to be getting denser. “Did I miss my turn?” He suddenly did not recognize anything. He slowed down, thinking he might have to turn around. He stopped, right in the middle of the road, to see if he could get signal on his phone to check where he was. He couldn’t see anything in this fog.

Before he could pull up his maps, he was startled by a jolt of light and noise rushing past, inches away from his car. It was a train–a train, blasting its whistle, rushing right past. No warning light visible, no barriers he could see in front of the tracks. He blinked hard, then it was gone.