How The Bitch Stole Christmas
The crisp mountain air, balmy, was cooling after dark, bit John’s exposed skin, walking back from dinner alone. Windows were open, fan blowing. Hot shower billowing steam. Selena was on the loo, smoking a storm under a sign that said NO SMOKING $250 CLEANING FEE. Inside the $300 vintage suite, the air shimmered with an artificial warmth, but a distinct chill permeated the space. She was once a vibrant splash of color in his life, now sat hunched for what seemed hours on the toilet, her shoulders sharp beneath a sterile hotel robe. He stared at her overly tan legs. Her hair, once a cascade of deep auburn, now held a brittle quality, thinning at the temples. A faint tremor ran through her hand as she lifted a glass of iced tea, the clinking of ice cubes an insistent punctuation in the silence. “The Orange Chicken was perfectly done,” John offered, a hopeful lilt in his voice. He gestured towards the small dining table, laden with carryout styrofoam, the scent of rosemary and ...
