A Very Fax Christmas

"Max, it's Christmas Eve! And you've already been working for, what, eight hours? Maybe nine?" Mrs Richards scolded me, prying my hands from the shopping trolley I was returning to its bay.

"No, it's fine. Not like I have anything to do anyway," I shrugged, saying the last part quietly. It was true. I had nothing to do, no one to spend Christmas with. And I honestly didn't care.

"At least go take a break." Mrs Richards insisted. I'd been working at her small, yet always busy, grocery store for over two years now, and what had started as a cashier job had turned into a varied job which had me restocking shelves, returning trolley's, manning the lottery counter, replying to customer complaints and a billion other things that kept me busy throughout the day and most nights.

Working helped keep my mind off the fact that I was twenty years old, I lived in a run-down old apartment and, oh, the main one, that my mother and siblings had all been killed in a plane crash.

It still hurt thinking about it, which is why I tried not to.

"Max? Are you alright dear?"

"Yeah, fine," I muttered. I tried not to let her see that there were tears in my eyes.

"You look tired. Please, go get some rest. And remember, the store is closed for Christmas day!"

Mrs Richards finally managed to persuade me to head inside, grab my bag and leave for the day—or, rather, night, considering it was past eleven in the evening.

"Merry Christmas," I called to my boss as I left the store. The words felt foreign in my mouth—I hadn't said anything like that to anyone in a while. Actually, I often didn't speak to anyone at all.

Once out the door, I began the long walk from the store back to my apartment, which usually took around twenty minutes if I was going at a swift pace, which I usually wasn't.

The usually streets were, naturally, littered with hundreds of drunken partygoers. I wrinkled my nose as I passed a dude wearing nothing but board shorts—despite the cold winter breeze—and sporting an almost burnt-out cigarette between his yellowed fingers.

Sometimes I wondered why I'd decided to move to New York City, of all places.

After all, millions lived here and I wasn't the most sociable person. Moving to Manhattan had been a tough decision, especially considering I had to work in a crappy little grocery store and live in a 1950's apartment.

Plus, Christmas in Manhattan was always a huge deal. Rockefeller Center was always decked out extravagantly, always sporting an enormous Christmas tree and always bustling with people, no matter the hour.

On a whim, I decided to stop by for a little looksee. Maybe the amount of Christmas decorations there could make up for the lack of anything Christmas-y in my apartment.

I immediately regretted my decision.

Rockefeller Center was even busier than the year before, when I'd viewed the scene from my apartment window not too far away. Before I knew it, I was swept up in a group of partiers. The 'group' was very tight and instantly made me feel claustrophobic, but there was no way I could turn back without being bowled over.

I saw an escape route—a tiny opening in the cluster of people. Relieved, I hurried forward but was instantly knocked forwards violently.

With all the grace that I could muster—which was, naturally, not a lot—I stumbled forward, tripped on someone's foot and face planted … right into some dude's lap. I felt my head scrape against something during the fall and I instinctively let out a cry.

"Ah!" I yelped again, standing up quickly. "Honestly, couldn't you see I was, uh, coming through?"

I gave the guy—who was around my age, with pale skin and medium-length black hair—a death glare, and he raised his hands up in mock surrender.

Like me, he too was alone, just sitting on a low stone wall, apparently people watching.
Which was stalker-ish, but I wasn't one to judge.

"Couldn't you see I was sitting here?" he raised an eyebrow, and I could see a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Here, sit down."

He patted the wall beside him and I crossed my arms, wishing I had the will to raise an eyebrow. It was the perfect situation, but no matter how hard I tried I'd never had the artful control over my eyebrows.

He sighed. "You've got a gaping wound on your head. I'm a doctor, alright? Let me take a look."

I touched a hand to my forehead and felt the sticky warmth of blood. As if on cue, my head began to throb and I did as he said, not saying a word. Or, more accurately, not trusting myself to say a word.

"I'm Fang, by the way." He said as he inspected the gash on my head.

"Doctor Fang? Interesting." I said, not offering my own name. He didn't really look like a doctor, and if he actually was—and not just some creepy perve—he looked awfully young to be qualified. Maybe he was an apprentice.

Fang chuckled for a second or two, then stopped abruptly. "Uh, right, well lucky I just finished work, so I've got my equiptment bag here with me."

He trailed off, and I thought he was kidding. But, sure enough, he pulled a bag from behind himself and rummaged through it before producing a thick plaster.

"That's going on my head?"

"Uh-huh, unless you want to bleed to death?" Fang offered up the decision. I rolled my eyes.

Fang applied some sort of cream to my injury before putting down some cotton balls and the plaster over top.

"Well thanks for that." I said, nodding curtly.

"No problem," he shrugged, and without another word I left. Which maybe, to some people, seemed a bit rude, but I wasn't keen on staying around all these people for much longer, Christmas Eve or not.

The walk to my apartment complex wasn't too far now. The further I got away from all the music and chatter, the better. Plus I was starving, and there was a nice big bowl of spaghetti Bolognese in my fridge just waiting to be heated up.

I was humming a Queen song to myself absently as I walked long, nodding along to the tune, most likely looking like an idiot.

"Hey—wait!" a voice called from behind me. I swivelled around, at first not recognising the voice, and instantly getting into a fighting stance. You never knew what could happen in Manhattan on Christmas Eve. Or maybe it was now Christmas—I hadn't checked the time.

I dropped my fists when I saw Fang jogging up to meet me.

"What do you want?" I huffed.

"Er—I was wondering if … maybe you wanted to get a drink with me or something?"

"I don't drink," I told him, turning around and beginning to walk off.

"A coffee, then?" Fang asked. Was he asking me out?

I turned around. He gave me an expectant look, I glared.

But as I stood there, watching his face fall at my expression, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could go for a coffee with him. After all, it was—I checked my watch—now Christmas, and Christmas was a time for happiness, right? Plus I was starving, and a slice of Christmas cake plus a scalding hot coffee did sound appealing.

I gave him a small smile. "Okay, then. But only because it's Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, by the way," Fang told me as he moved up to stand beside me. As we set off for a nearby 24 hour café, snow began to fall down heavily.

Fang gave me a smile and opened the door to the café wide for me. I gave him a little smile back. But, as I reminded myself constantly, only because it was Christmas. And on Christmas I should be happy.

Boy was I going to have to get used to this happy thing.