Tyrone raised an eyebrow. “Dylan is playing Santa tonight.”
“Dylan is cute.” I said. “But no, I’m all yours.”
He squeezed my hand and gave me a look that almost raised my body to a temperature that would register as alive, before his expression shifted to concern. “Do you smell something burning?” He sniffed the air.
Oh, shit. Smoke was rising from my backside. There was a baby Jesus in a manger scene right behind me. I pretended to stomp out a cigarette butt. “People are so careless. Poor Baby cheeses.”
“I’ll be right back. There’s too much hay around here for people to be tossing cigarettes.”
Too many flammables for me to be standing next to Jesus. Discreetly, I plopped onto a snow-covered chair. My overheated ass steamed as it melted the snow. Luckily, the fabric had just melted a bit, so my bum was still covered.
Speaking of cigarettes, I needed one real bad. A young woman walked by and the scent of iron wafted off her, tantalizing my senses. Involuntarily, I bared my fangs and hissed.
She looked my way, as if trying to make sense of my behavior, and asked, “Did you say something?”
“I love your…” I searched for something I liked and said, “Boyfriend.” I could have smacked myself in the forehead. Lipstick, hair, jacket—anything would have been better. I was a menace to society.
“Um, thanks?” The woman and her maybe-boyfriend hurried away.
“Sorry,” I called. “I have low blood sugar.” If I didn’t drink something soon, I was going to drain a kid waiting for Santa.
Coconut water was working, but I probably needed a lot more. It was just a matter of calibrating things. I made for the gift shop.
The St. Nicholas Farms gift shop was chock-full of ornaments, tree stands, and locally made chocolates. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You look a little wan.” A checkout woman reminiscent of Mrs. Claus touched my arm with concern. The smell of O negative emanated from her.
For her comfort I smiled (no fangs). “I’m just really thirsty. Do you have any coconut water?”Before I drain someone.We didn’t need a repeat of the Wayne Jarvis situation.
“Coconut water?” She repeated it like it was a foreign concept and shook her head in a young-people-these-days way as she checked the fridge. “Whaddya know? You’re in luck.” She emerged triumphant with a tall blue can of Goya coconut water.
After paying, I stood outside the shop and cracked the can open. With my first sip, I swallowed a few chunks of coconut flesh. I sputtered and coughed on the solid matter. Tyrone appeared as I was trying to choke down coconut water like I had tried to swallow steak without chewing.
“You okay there?”
I waved off my coughing fit. “Yes, take me to the fat man,” I said jovially, now that I had enough electrolytes in my system.
Tyrone offered his arm and I leaned into him as we walked. We werea fun couple on a quirky date with a fun night ahead of us—just like everyone else. Holiday tunes drifted through the air, intermingling with the laughter of children and the sound of a crackling bonfire.
“I feel like I’ve stepped into one of my favorite movies.” My stomach gurgled, unused to solids. This date was such a great idea, a fun activity and no pretending to eat. “Did you believe in Santa when you were a kid?” I asked Tyrone, a little too loudly. The mom in front of us turned and glared.
I covered my mouth in anoopsgesture and mouthed, “Sorry!”
“Hell no. I was raised by a single mom. There was no way she was going to give some dude credit for presents she bought.”
A boy who loved his mom—be still my heart.
“How about you?” he asked.
“Oh, I still believe.” Santa, Satan—all you had to do was rearrange a few letters. He’s temptation personified, a capitalist god who works one day a year, passing judgment on children. “So, no Santa growing up, but now you’ve become Santa.” I gestured to the Christmas magic around us.
“This all just happened. I mean, what kind of twentysomething Black man from North Carolina decides to run a Christmas tree farm in Vermont? No offense, but that’s some white people shit.”
He wasn’t wrong. The line of people waiting to see Santa wound through a maze of candy canes and presents, nearly all white faces.
“But didn’t you say your family farmed Christmas trees?” I asked, genuinely trying to figure it out.
Tyrone raised a brow. “What are you, a journalist?”
I laughed lightly as some teenagers pushed past us toward Santa.
