by Jelena Dunato
I should come down the chimney, but it’s too narrow, so I use the back door you left unlocked.
Colourful Christmas lights in your living room are blinking, allowing me to move without crashing into your Craigslist furniture. I wrapped your presents in shiny red paper, tied them with golden ribbons. I place them lovingly under the tree. A perfume I know you like because you’ve ordered it online twice in the last eighteen months. It’s called Paris; it smells of roses, spring and fresh love, and makes me imagine kissing your silky, scented skin. Red lingerie to go with the perfume: a bra (34B, I stood behind you in a lingerie shop once) and knickers, red satin trimmed with lace. You’ve been nice for too long, it’s time to get naughty.
The presents are in their place. You left no sherry and mince pies for the Santa, but I prefer a different sweet kick anyway. I take my black boots off, tiptoe across the hallway and climb the stairs to your room. The door is ajar. Your moonlit face is serene, framed by your raven hair. I’m dying to kiss you.
But no. Sleep peacefully, my love. On Christmas morning, when you find your presents, your surprise and joy will make my efforts worthwhile. I’ll introduce myself then, your Secret Santa, your number one fan.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” I’ll say.
We will be so happy, I promise.
JELENA DUNATO is an art historian, curator, speculative fiction writer and lover of all things ancient. She grew up in Croatia on a steady diet of adventure stories and then wandered the world for a decade, building a career in the arts and writing stories that lay buried in the depths of her laptop until she gathered the courage to publish them.
Jelena lives on an island in the Adriatic with her husband, daughter and cat. You can find her at jelenadunato.com and on Twitter @jelenawrites.