I’d bought us a Christmas cactus to breathe some life into the fucking emptiness of our relationship. It had a Santa hat on made of felt and a couple of comically misplaced wobbly eyes. It was one of those cacti covered in white fluff, which was supposed to represent Santa’s beard, but instead it covered every single inch of the spiky bastard, which instead made it look a bit like a yeti. A yeti with spines and a Santa hat, just the thing to make everything better.
You looked at me with vague disgust as I put the cactus on the windowsill in the kitchen and I imagined myself shoving it down your throat. Your eyes would start bleeding for some reason and I would dance around in your entrails- you were right in saying we didn’t need tinsel because your intestines would more than make up for it.
Did I want a toastie, you enquired. Did I want a fucking toastie? But of course I did; does a bear shit in the woods? Does a Christmas cactus create infinite happiness? When you bend a Haribo Vampire Fang in half does it sort of look like a vagina? The answer to all of these questions was clearly yes. I ate the toastie and fucked you until we were even.
The next day one of the eyeballs had fallen off the cactus and I launched it out of the window into a group of teenagers, and watched as they bled everywhere and yelled, and such. I heard you giggling behind me as one of them went to call an ambulance and my face burst into a smile. We held hands and stood by the window for a little longer whilst the teenagers picked spines from the inside of their mouths. Happy fucking Christmas.