I navigated through the bustling streets of City Dahm, the holiday spirit palpable in the air but a nightmare for anyone trying to drive. Strings of colorful lights crisscrossed above the road, and the sidewalks were jam-packed with last-minute shoppers laden with bags. Children's laughter mixed with the occasional wail of a tantrum, and somewhere in the distance, a street performer was singing an off-key rendition of "Jingle Bells."
Just as I turned onto what I thought would be a clear route, I was greeted by the familiar sight of another roadblock—a massive Christmas tree planted dead center in the intersection. It wasn't just a tree; it was a monument to excess, adorned with oversized ornaments and garlands that sparkled like they'd been dipped in molten gold. Traffic was at a standstill, and drivers around me honked in futile frustration.
I exhaled sharply and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. "Of course," I muttered under my breath, shifting the car into park.
Beside me, Sasha sat rigid, her posture tense and her gaze fixed on the scene outside. She wasn't fidgeting exactly, but the way she pressed her lips together and tightened her grip on her coat spoke volumes.
"You okay?" I asked, turning my head slightly toward her.
She hesitated, as if debating whether to lie or brush me off. Finally, she exhaled through her nose. "Not a fan of crowds," she admitted, her voice low. "Too noisy. Too... chaotic."
"Yeah, that makes two of us," I said, glancing back at the gridlock. "Guess we're stuck here for a bit."
She didn't respond, but I caught her shifting in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I flipped off the ignition, resigning myself to the situation.
"So," I said after a moment, my tone light, "got any Christmas tunes to match the vibe?"
Her head snapped toward me, and I was met with a sharp glare. For a second, I thought I might have pushed too far, but then she rolled her eyes with a hint of exasperation. "Oh, absolutely. Let me just dig into my extensive collection of festive misery anthems," she shot back, deadpan.
I smirked, leaning back in my seat. "I'll take it over car horns any day."
"Well, Sasha, what do you think 'minimilistically handsome' mean?," I asked, breaking the silence. I had been pondering about the materialistic term again and again. But I couldn't help but think of myself as a sophisticated home decor.
"That receptionist was a little fancy with her word. But she looked like a crictic who never gave praise for free... maybe.. you are silently handsome.," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
"Silently handsome?," I added.
'Silently handsome?' It resonated in my mind. Her words made it more confusing.
I gave up on the terms given by the two skeptical ladies and thought it as a compliment.
She let out a small, reluctant laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. Outside, the chaos of the season raged on, but inside the car, we found a small reprieve in shared annoyance and dry humor.
The streets of City Dahm were alive with the unmistakable energy of Christmas. Among the crowds, giant Santa costumes paraded like oversized mascots, their exaggerated features impossible to miss. Some waved cheerfully at passersby, while others posed for photos with children or danced in front of shops blasting holiday music. Their bright red suits and fluffy white beards made a significant presence, as if declaring that Christmas had claimed the city entirely.
As I sat in the unmoving car, I reached for the radio knob, hoping for a distraction. The moment it clicked on, the familiar tune of "Jingle Bells" flooded the cabin.
"Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock..."
I groaned softly, shaking my head. Even the radio had succumbed to the relentless tide of Christmas spirit, syncing perfectly with the chaos outside. Everywhere I looked, it was holiday overload—the lights, the music, the costumes. City Dahm wasn't just celebrating Christmas; it was drowning in it.
I glanced over at Sasha, who was now looking at the street Santas with a mixture of amusement and mild irritation. "Even the radio's in on it," I said, gesturing toward the speakers.
She raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "What did you expect? It's City Dahm. If they could turn the moon into a Christmas ornament, they probably would."
"Fair point," I muttered, leaning back as the song continued. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes.
I glanced over at Sasha, her eyes fixed on the streets outside. Despite her earlier discomfort, there was a softness in her expression now, a quiet enjoyment as she watched the swirling chaos of Christmas unfold. Children squealed with delight as they chased each other around the massive Santa costumes, and couples walked hand in hand, their laughter rising above the hum of the crowd. The air buzzed with festive cheer, and though the hustle and bustle could be overwhelming, it was impossible to deny the magic of it all.
The colorful lights reflected in Sasha's gaze, and for a moment, she seemed lost in the joy and simplicity of the scene. Watching her, I felt a small pang of guilt. A girl like her—sharp, capable, and undeniably sweet—deserved to soak in the holiday spirit instead of being weighed down by the grim realities of our work.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, hesitating. Then, before I could overthink it, I broke the silence. "Hey," I said, drawing her attention.
She turned to me, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
I gave her a small smile. "Would you like to take a detour to my favorite bar?"
Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the offer. "Your favorite bar?"
"Yeah," I said, leaning back in my seat. "It's quiet, nothing fancy. They've got decent music, good food, and—if I remember right—a holiday special on eggnog this time of year."
She blinked, then smirked faintly. "Eggnog, huh? Didn't peg you for the festive type."
"Don't push it," I said, suppressing a chuckle. "I just thought it might be better than sitting in this traffic and listening to 'Jingle Bells' on repeat."
Sasha tilted her head, pretending to consider it. "Alright," she said finally. "But if this place has cheesy Christmas decor, I'm holding it against you."
"Deal," I said, starting the car. For the first time that evening, I felt like the holiday chaos outside didn't seem so bad.
I pulled into the public parking lot, sliding the car into an open space near the bar. Not a bad spot—close enough to avoid the chill in the air, far enough from the chaos of the main street.
Stepping out, I walked around and opened the door for Sasha. She hesitated for a moment, glancing at the lively scene ahead, then stepped out. Her eyes fell on the sign above the bar's entrance—The Drunken Duck, illuminated by soft, flickering lights. The muffled hum of conversation and laughter spilled out onto the street, mingling with the faint sound of holiday music from inside.
"It's crowded, sir Loren," she said, her voice laced with mild skepticism.
I glanced at her, amused. "Yeah, it is," I admitted, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. "But don't worry. The owner's a good friend of mine—an old man who's been running this place longer than I've been around. He'll take care of us."
Sasha raised an eyebrow but followed me toward the entrance. "The Drunken Duck, huh? Interesting choice for a favorite bar."
I smirked, pushing open the heavy wooden door. "Don't knock it till you try it."
Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting despite the crowd. The rustic interior was decked out with just enough holiday decorations to feel festive without being overwhelming. Strings of lights hung along the walls, casting a golden glow over the wooden beams and worn leather booths. A crackling fireplace at one corner added to the cozy charm, though most of the patrons were gathered around the bar, laughing and chatting over clinking glasses.
"Lorenzo!" a booming voice called out from behind the counter. A balding man with a bushy gray mustache and an apron stained with years of use waved enthusiastically.
"That's him," I said to Sasha, nodding toward the man. "Edward Mallory—best bartender in the city and probably the only one who can talk me into trying eggnog."
Sasha chuckled softly. "He seems... enthusiastic."
"Wait till you meet him," I said, leading her toward the counter. "Just don't let him rope you into one of his long-winded stories unless you've got a few hours to spare."
As we approached, Edward's grin widened. "Lorenzo Hoffman, you son of a gun! It's been too long. And who's this?"
"Good to see you too, Edward," I said, shaking his hand. "This is Sasha. She's—"
"Say no more," Edward interrupted, leaning toward her with a twinkle in his eye. "Any friend of Lorenzo's is welcome here. First round's on me."
Sasha shot me a surprised look, and I shrugged. "Told you he'd take care of us."