A Not So Romantic Christmas

Below is my entry into Real Poetic's Holiday Jamboree! Microfiction Challenge. Here is her link, if you'd like to join in.

The diamond sparkled brightly as the lights on the Christmas tree, as Jack, on bended knee, flipped open the velvet box and asked me to be his bride.

I probably should have come up with a better response than screaming “GO TO HELL,” but I did just catch him making out with my sister. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just kicked him in the crotch.

Yet there I was, standing in the living room, surrounded by my family looking at me like I was the crazy one. Jack was still there, on bended knee, with a look of shock on his face; and but for sheer restraint, his testicles still dangling between his legs, and not stuck in his throat.

With the sound of Mariah screeching “All I want for Christmas is you,” and my mother screeching about what an embarrassment I was to the family, I walked to the bar and poured myself a shot of Vodka. And then I poured another.

When Mom grabbed my arm to drag me outside, while chirping in my ear about “these things should be done in private,” I yelled something else that, in retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have said.

“Well, tell Marcie she should have found a private place to fuck my boyfriend.”

Other than the sound of Elvis’s Blue Christmas, you could have heard a pin drop. With half the room staring at me, and the other half giving Marcie and Jack the evil eye, I got the stark realization that Mom was right. I should have done this in private.

But it was out there. There was nothing I could do but pour myself another drink, look Marcie dead in the eye and say, “Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas, you ho!