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by
Alina Jacobs
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December 7 - December 8, 2024
Gracie is a grown woman in her late thirties,” her aunt continued. “I’m only twenty-nine.”
“Mom, are you drinking?” “Gracie made mimosas.” “No, I didn’t.” “Fine.” Granny Murray shrugged. “I made my own mimosa.”
“Why is my life such a disaster?” I moaned. “Why can’t men like me?”
“Merry fucking Christmas. Go buy yourself something nice.” “Fuck you, Gracie. I hate my job, I hate Grayson, and I hate Christmas, and you better turn off that fucking singing Santa,” he said, making a knife hand at the dancing decoration, “before I throw it out the fucking window.”
He smiled up at me. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. I know you like the apron with the gnomes on it because the strings are long enough to tie it in the front, but you’ll settle for the one with those demonic Christmas bunnies.” “They have antlers on. I embroidered that myself.”

