Gladness, Goodness, Good News, Glad Tidings

The town was called “Gladness” or “Goodness” or “Good News” or “Glad Tidings”—something that made it feel dirty while doing what she was doing.

She was messaging anonymous men in the small town who were willing to fuck. To fuck her. She had until Christmas Eve to finalize her report on the last physical storefront the company owned. Should they close it? Was it financially prudent to keep it open? Who wants to fuck?

She thought about fucking the manager of the last physical storefront. He was physically built to fuck. He was too naive, though. She’d been fucked by naïveté before. For one reason or another, he had a slinky in his car. Would drink only hot chocolate. Had a niece he was willing to adopt. 

Report from the outside: ghosts of frost on the side streets and lawns. The long, green light that seemed unseasonable from the long, lone streetlight. Who could live here all year round? In the middle of nowhere?

She fucked on the bed, in the bathroom, on the balcony. It snowed. It rained. One day of sunshine. With a man’s hand over her mouth, she listened to a child crying over an ungotten toy in the hallway of the quaint B&B.

When Christmas Eve came and the board asked her if they should close the last physical storefront, she thought about it. She raised up from her chair and said, I am Shiva, God of Death, Destroyer of Worlds!    

The Face In All The Christmas Movies

There is apparently a man who plays in all the Christmas movies on TV.

“He’s the one with the face,” says my mother. “He has the face.”

I say that she has to be more specific.

“The face,” she says, while this time placing her hands worshipfully around her own face.