Page 12 of All About Christmas

In our family, Christmas is always a big event, and so by the beginning of October, we can no longer contain our excitement and future planning is discussed extensively.

Various questions are brought up, such as: whose house are we celebrating at this year?

(It always ends up being at my fathers’.); Who is making dessert?

(Me.); And are we giving each other Christmas presents this year?

(The “no” usually changes to “yes” in mid-November because Dad can rarely control himself when he walks past the storefronts full of Christmas stuff.)

Another topic that sparks discussion early on is also known to us as the Flappie dilemma.

Youp van ‘t Hek, the comedian, had slightly traumatized a then seven-year-old Peter with his song about a young boy who presumably murders his father for cooking the family’s pet rabbit on Christmas, and his famous words: “Look! There’s Flappie!”

And so it happened that after my Bambi trauma, rabbit disappeared from the Christmas menu in addition to venison.

A year later, Peter came to the decision that cows, pigs, and sheep were actually not that different from the cuddly rodent he cared for with much love and attention and decided to stop eating meat altogether.

Dad, in particular, for whom a piece of steak is about as sacred as Cher, had a hard time with it.

And thus the Flappie dilemma was born, which boils down to Dad and Peter arguing in the group chat for weeks about the Christmas menu, after which two things are always put on the table: meat for Dad and a nut-mushroom roast for Peter.

Papa and I happily snack on everything.

For some reason, every year we have to go through that same process to get to the same end result.

And that’s also why I put my phone on silent for a while, to avoid being distracted by the tidal wave of messages pouring into the family chat.

“Shouldn’t you respond?” asks Olivier when a notification flashes across my screen for the umpteenth time that hour.

My screen is littered with images of wedding dresses that I want to present to Maggie in order to decide which boutique to go to.

I look up. “Oh, no, that’s the family app.”

When Olivier continues to look at me, still not understanding, I add, “You know how that goes.”

Something flashes across his gaze that I can’t quite place. Something sad? Then he blinks his eyes a few times. “Yeah,” he mumbles and focuses back on his work. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

“There are donuts in the kitchen!” Noor walks behind me and plops back down in her desk chair. She has a delicious deep-fried pastry topped with a thick layer of pink icing in her hand. “From Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Oh, how delicious! Whose birthday is it?”

Noor sinks her teeth into the sweet bliss. “Mmm. Don’t know, actually. Someone from HR, I think.”

Olivier and I stand up at the same time. We look at each other in surprise for a few moments, but then walk around our desks toward the kitchenette.

I’m also craving one of those delicious donuts that has crispy layers of frosting that melts on your tongue.

Since my legs are slightly shorter than Olivier’s, I trail behind him. His long legs carry him with brisk steps toward the promised diabetic rings.

His dark blue tailored suit fits him like a glove again, and his pants fall perfectly over his heels. From the outside, the man is perfect, but inside...

“Damn,” I mutter as I look at the nearly empty box of donuts. There are still a few sugared pastries in there, but the really tasty ones—the ones that make your blood sugar rise faster than the world’s sea level—have run out. And the last one is in the hands of...

“Mm, tasty.” Olivier smiles contentedly as his molars prepare the fried dough for digestion. Some of the pink goodness sticks to the insides of his mouth.

I press my lips together. I know I shouldn’t be ungrateful, but still. Where are his manners?

Not that I wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing had I been standing in his expensive Berluti mules.

With slight reluctance, I grab a sugared donut from the box and take a bite.

I could enjoy it, were it not for the fact that Olivier is eating his donut so expressively that it almost feels like I’m watching a scene in a rom-com.

“Mmm,” he groans, licking his fingers in between. He continues to look straight at me, and my donut remains suspended in the air right in front of my mouth.

His full lips glide over his thumb, which he undoubtedly cleans thoroughly with his tongue—it’s somewhat uncomfortable, but in a strange way it also makes him slightly seductive. Something happens in my lower abdomen. Something very unwelcome and irritating.

“What’s going on here?” With a jolt, our heads shoot in the direction of the voice. Olivier still has his thumb in his mouth, something he also seems to realize, because he quickly drops his arm back down by his side.

Pippin stands there, looking uneasy. He has an empty tea mug in one hand and a saucer in the other.

“Oh, nothing at all,” says Olivier innocently, taking a sizeable bite of his donut.

“Olivier just dishonoured a donut,” I reply dryly and take a bite of mine.

Olivier snorts and Pippin chuckles.

“Oh, stop it,” mutters the donut thief.

I lean my hip against the countertop and look at Olivier with satisfaction. “If that donut could talk, it would have walked over to HR and we’d have put #metoo after your name right now. That looked very R-rated.”

Pippin’s gaze flashes from me to Olivier and back again. Then he takes a step forward and puts his tea mug under the spot where hot water comes out of the coffee maker. He presses a button and, with much sputtering, the mug fills.

“I miss fresh coffee,” he mutters as he searches for a new tea bag from the box. “I still don’t understand how that machine just broke down overnight.”

“Hm.” Olivier looks at me meaningfully. “You would almost think that someone has been fiddling with the settings.”

I feel the blood draining from my face. “If that were the case, I’m sure that person regrets it very much.”

“I think it would have been polite of them to mention that.”

“You’re not even sure that’s the cause,” I snap at him and turn to walk back to my workstation.

Olivier has stuffed the last piece of his dessert into his mouth and is walking behind me. “Then again, it’s kind of weird you didn’t report it,” he says indifferently.

“Oh, you want to talk about weird? I’m not the one who just made love to a donut.”

Olivier’s eyes widen. “Shh!” He looks around, startled, to see if anyone has heard my remark. “You shouldn’t say things like that. People can get very... different mental images from those words.”

A small, smug chuckle bubbles up in my throat. I continue on my way to my office chair, extremely pleased with myself while munching down on the rest of my donut.

It is now nine o’clock, and Olivier and I are the last ones at work. I still have to take care of some things for my segment, and I want them sorted out before I pack it in for the day. Olivier also looks at his screen with focused eyes.

During overtime, we often get to order pizza, which is why there are now two nearly empty boxes on our desks. I don’t typically eat my crusts. I often find them dry and tasteless. It’s just bread.

I rub my face and groan. My eyes almost fall shut. I slept poorly last night, and it was a long day. I can choose to go home, or I can pour a cup of battery acid and spend the rest of the evening jittery at my computer.

I decide to go for the latter. Somehow, I want to beat Olivier. I don’t know when working overtime as long as possible became a competition, but today it is.

Olivier looks up for a moment when I stand up. “Are you giving up?” he asks, which only strengthens my decision to go for coffee.

“Never,” I answer briskly.

The corners of his mouth drop slightly.

I straighten my shirt and walk with great strides toward the kitchenette taking notice of the storm brewing outside for the first time. I grab a cup from the shelf and watch as the liquid energy boost spurts into the mug.

As I walk back, the lights flicker for a second.

I stop momentarily and look up, but when it doesn’t happen again, I walk on toward my spot.

The rain taps harder and harder against the windows, and the dark sky lights up with a flash.

The thunder shouldn’t be a surprise, but nevertheless, I let out a scream when I hear a loud bang, and the lights suddenly go out.

“Holly?” I hear the creak of a chair and then the shuffling of shoes on laminate. “Where are y—ouch!”

I feel a dull thump as Olivier bumps into me. My mug slips from my hands. I make a frantic attempt to snatch it out of the air, but it is in vain.

There is a hissing sound as the hot drink lands on Olivier.

“Shit! Sorry!”

“Damn,” he mutters. “Do you have something against this jacket or something?”

A silence falls that is filled only by our irregular breathing. Oliver stands close. Very close. The spicy scent of his aftershave mixed with coffee invades my nostrils, and it smells good. Very good.

“What jacket?”

“The jacket you puked on. You’ve now poured coffee all over it.”

“It’s the same jacket?”

“Yep.”

“Sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

Something rustles and suddenly there is light. Olivier shines his phone’s flashlight around him. “I think that’s our cue to get out of here. Nothing really works anymore. My laptop still has a battery, but I think it needs replacing. It keeps draining way too fast.”

“Huh. So you’re giving up?” I ask, teasingly throwing his words back in his face.

Olivier chuckles. “Yes. I give up.”