Nobody Writes to the Fat Man
Holding a pair of darned socks and a hot water bottle, Albtraum stood outside the fat man’s room. The elf nudged the door open and peeked inside. By candle light, he saw his old friend, wearing nothing but his y-fronts, seated by the frosted window.
‘Leave everything on the bed, Albtraum.’
The elf placed the things down with deliberate slowness and then, light of foot, stepped just outside the door and watched as Santa continued to trace, on each of the frosted panes, the names of all the children, who no longer wrote him letters.
His sleigh alighted upon her roof. Despite the years, his descent down her chimney still sent butterflies up inside him. The rooms of the house, though changed, remained familiar. He placed his gloves on the bare marble mantelpiece, where once he’d have found a plate of gingerbread and a picture she’d drawn, her name written in crayon, always brick red, the letters becoming smaller over time.
Inside her room, she no longer needed a nightlight; instead a reading lamp shone above her, asleep, her cheek resting on an open book: her quivering eyelashes scratched at the pages. A pair of silk stockings hung from the bedpost.
She’d believed longer than anyone. But nothing lasted. He came closer, switched off the light, reached for her stockings.
Illustrations by Hannes Pasqualini