Sneak Peek: A Christmas Story (Patreon)

I had hopes of finishing this by Christmas. Not sure if I will or not, but here's a sneak peek at something rough and very much in progress....

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Six: A Christmas Story

The portly ground-floor security guard greets me with a smile.

            “Hey, Cindy. Didn’t think I’d see you back here tonight.” His eyes linger somewhere well below eye-level before drifting up to my face.  

            “Late night, Frank.” I grip a pair of coffee cups in my manicured hand, pink fingernails bright against white. “Liquid fuel.”

            He shakes his head. “Late night on Christmas eve? It’s 6pm. Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

            I shrug, swipe my pass. A green light flashes, and the gate pops open.

            “Pretty girl like you? Surely there’s some lucky guy waiting for you at home?”

            Truth is, there’s nobody. The girls have all shot off home or shacked up with some boy for the holidays. With Julia gone, I’m alone for Christmas. Which is fine, that’s how I like it—I’ve spent more Christmases alone than with friends or some girl. And frankly, considering the past few months, a few days of quiet and alone time feels like the greatest gift of all.

            But I giggle and toss my hair, because even for an audience there’s a performance to maintain. “I know, right?” I pass through the gate. “Such inconsiderate timing, being between boys during the holidays.”

             “Well, try not to get too lonely up there,” he says, watching me pass through. “Pretty much everyone’s gone home for the week. A couple cleaners, a few poor bastards like me holding down the fort.”

            “Merry Christmas, Frank,” I say, gifting Frank the sight of my skirted ass as I walk away. My heels ring out loudly against the polished floor, loud in the empty lobby.

            There’s something lonely about an office building at Christmas, like a school empty of students during the holidays. It’s dark outside, and quiet inside. Lights flicker to life as I step off the elevator.  Other than the faint breathing of air filters, the reception of Volumina International is silent. The banner from last week’s party hangs limply from the ceiling, and a few baubles and glittery decorations remain. This is my sad little fiefdom: my desk, sleek and simple under the unlit V.I. sign; a leather sofa and a few comfy chairs for waiting guests and near them, an end table decorated with a green succulent and a few industry magazines. When I’m not sat prettily behind the desk, I’m fluttering around the room, nudging things into order, tidying up behind messy visitors.

            The 25th falls on a Wednesday this year, one of those awkward years where the days on either side feel a waste and everyone cashes in their holidays, unless a generous manager closes the offices and gives them the days for free. Turns out Michael’s a generous boss, and the offices were empty and silent.

            Which is how I like it. Recently, I’d taken to arriving early in the morning—sometimes the first in, though not always. Traveling the city in the early morning dark—often heading home in the dark—cold winter weeks following Julia’s departure and my check-up at the Clinic. I’d honestly come to truly appreciate that quiet first hour before others arrived. A few cleaners, maybe Michael busy in his corner office; and me, alone at my desk at reception, preparing for the day. No men, watching. No women, judging. Freedom in which to just get on with my work and let slip the performance, even if only for an hour.

            Truth was, without any further updates or demands from Darius, I was in a holding pattern, slow, gentle circles descending softly into Cindy’s waiting life. And—it wasn’t bad, this life; there was a lot to like in it. I had good friends. I’d even dated, a little. If it wasn’t for—other concerns—I’d probably be quite content.

            Sitting at my desk, I flicked on the computer and checked a few messages. Nothing too urgent. There’s an easy hour of work here, but not much more: forwarding on a few information requests, putting a few clients in touch with the correct person. I need to update a few data sheets and proofread a document for Mel. I could call it at that. After all, I’m just a fucking receptionist. It’s not like I’m getting paid to go above and beyond. But there’s always more to do, if you went looking for it.

            Sighing, I pushed away from my desk and stand over by the mirror. Admittedly, I’m over-dressed for a day alone in the office. There’d been a couple people in this morning, but they’d all fucked off by two, taking a late lunch and not returning. One or two die-hards were still hanging on by the time I left to grab a coffee, and now they were gone. Wasted, these lovely pink ankle-strap heels and patterned thigh highs, and the short, pleated plaid skirt. My breasts pushed out the chunky peach sweater, and there’s a heavy bracelet at my wrist, chunky earrings at my ear. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time on my hair this morning, and the golden mane sweeping over one shoulder looks fabulous. Same with my makeup: soft, luscious lips; bold, striking cheeks: I look great.

            And if I’m being totally honest, the effort’s not at all wasted, because it’s not just for me that I’ve dressed this way. There’s one other sad, pathetic soul working late this Christmas Eve.

            Carrying both coffees, I pass through into the offices of Volumina International. Rows of empty desks, and the slight, caustic scent of a recent deep clean. And in one corner, a lonely pool of light cast from a single office.

            “Coffee, boss?”

            Michael looks up from his desk, and smiles. He shakes his head in mock distress, and he smiles. “You really shouldn’t be here, Cindy.” But he takes the coffee gratefully. “But thank you.”