The bough broke. Down came the partridge: scarf, cap and all. Jamie swore.
“Dammit, Kirsten, I told you to get a fir tree.”
“Don’t swear on the eve of our Lord’s birth. I thought you said ‘pear’ tree and this was the closest thing I could find.”
“Why would you think … ? Oh, that stupid song you like.”
“It’s not stupid. You just hate it because you can’t remember all 12 verses.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t send you out for a wassail. You’d probably come back with a couple of waffles.”
“How dare you! Do I make fun of your cleft palate?”
“Um…yeah! Does this ring a bell? ‘Girl, I hate kissing him. It’s like sticking my tongue into a sugarplum that’s been squeezed by a nutcracker!’”
Kirsten was mortified. “That was a private conversation!”
Jamie snickered. “Oh, not ‘Sorry, honey?’ You going to twist this around and make it about me?”
Kirsten shrugged, “Ah, forget it. And forget the partridge. It’s too heavy. Let’s just put it on the mantel, next to the toboggan.” She handed him a plastic icicle. “Won’t this look lovely on the tree?”
Copyright © 2016 by Mitchell Allen
Originally appeared on CreativeCopyChallenge #467.