The crisp, cold winter night folded its icy arms around the small, modest house. Outside, several feet of fresh snow blanketed everything in sight, making it seem like an alien wilderness, even as more snow swirled through the frigid air. Snowdrifts and snow-covered bushes loomed out of the darker recesses of the house and surrounding yard, and on the roof, snow piled around the frosty, icicle-covered weathervane.
Inside, it was warm and cozy. The vents puffed hot air into every room, and the blankets and comforters were piled high on each bed. As the children slept soundly, albeit noisily, as they were, after all, boys, their warmth steamed over the windows, and they slept deeply, with no icy breeze to disturb them.
In the living room, candles were lit. The mother of the children was seated on her azure-upholstered sofa, sipping red wine. It was Christmas' eve, and as she sat, relaxing for the first time that day, she smiled up at the man that stood before her, beside the plastic-though lovingly decorated-Christmas tree.
He wore a red suit, and smiled back at her with a coy expression to match her own. Beside her, on the couch, was a large Burmese cat, with a luxurious coat of long, soft fur. It purred as she stroked its ears, but when the man moved to sit beside her, it found itself most unceremoniously shoved from its owner's side.
The woman leaned back, pressing into the couch's silky exterior, hmm-ing in pleasure. She had been on her feet all day. It felt so nice to finally slip off her heels, especially when the man in red shifted, bringing her feet into his lap. His fingers, though gloved, were very adapt, and soon he had her almost writhing in ecstasy as he massaged her achy feet. No one, she made sure to tell him, had ever made her feel quite so good. He smiled at that, and murmured something about it being his pleasure.
As the evening passed and the candles grew short, the two cuddled on the couch, talking and kissing and dropping hints here and there that bordered on indecent, at times. Outside, the snow was piling up against the windows, and the woman made some remark about her red-suited guest finding his way home. He laughed, brushing her knuckles against his lips, ever so lightly, assuring her that it was not to worry, that he always managed to get home, no matter how unfriendly the terrain.
Finally, as pink stained the undersides of the blanketing grey clouds outside, signalling the impending dawn, the woman grew uneasy. Her husband would be home any minute, she warned, and she would have to start making her special Christmas breakfast soon, in order to have enough to satisfy all of her children. Her face grew pinched as she talked, as though the very thought of all those mouths to feed were stressors of unimaginable burden.
The man smiled and kissed her deeply, then stood. From within his jacket he pulled a bag of red-and-white candy canes, which he distributed to the blue stockings that hung from the mantle. For the children, he told her, smiling as he tucked them snugly in beside the oranges and toothbrushes and brand-new packages of baseball cards.
The radio was on, quietly playing a slow, sultry song. With an outstretched hand, the man swept the woman up off the couch, and then they were dancing, and then she was wrapped up in his arms, and she closed her eyes. He knew she trusted him completely, then.
Gravel crunched. A car door slammed. The woman jumped in his arms, hurriedly switching off the radio and whipping away the wine. She bit her lip, frightened, as her eyes cast about for anything else out of place as, outside, crunching, snowy footsteps could be heard.
Your husband, I presume, the man said cooly, bending to pick up the cat that was winding itself around his leg. He placed it back on the couch, then pulled the woman back into an embrace with a warm, unforgettable parting kiss that was broken when she shoved him into the coat closet to hide.
Then the door was unlocked and the husband inside. He found his wife in the living room, casually pouring him a glass of white wine. Finding nothing amiss, the he flopped down onto the couch, moaning about the hours his demanding job required. He was asleep in minutes.
When the woman dared to peek into the coat closet again, to help her red-suited guest escape the house undetected, he was not there. Somehow, it seemed, he had managed to sneak out, escaping even her notice.
Upstairs, the littlest of the boys was slipping back into bed. He had woken up at the sound of his father coming home, and had snuck out to the stairwell to see if Santa had come yet. What he saw, however, was his mother, kissing a mysterious man in red.
For years, the youngest would tell his brothers what he had seen, how his mother had been kissing Santa Claus. And for years, he would be laughed at, until finally he would admit to himself, and to his brothers, that maybe he really did make the whole thing up, after all.
He would never be fully convinced that this was true, however.