Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,105

sounds of Christmas music emanating from the retail stores, the lights, the lights and the lights.

It feels like the most Christmas-y moment ever, bar none.

And it’s not even Christmas!

Mika says animatedly, “What a way to kick off the holidays.”

I laugh joyously, imbued with the holiday spirit. “I’m so glad you came.”

He links his arm through mine. “Phenomenal dinner, nice walk under the lights. We should do this more often.”

“I know...” I pat his arm affectionately, “we should.”

But inside, I doubt that we will.

Mika will soon return to The Land of Waffles, while I’ll still be stuck in The Valley of Potatoes. For now at least, I briefly close my eyes and remember this moment.

Twenty Five

The sweet, decadent aromas of Thanksgiving permeate the halls. The smell of an oven-roasted turkey dripping with gravy, fluffy mashed potatoes, freshly baked pumpkin pie, and my all-time favorite—sweet potatoes mushed up with a pound and a half of real butter, dusted with brown sugar, and sprinkled with pecans. It’s artery clogging, calorie packing and waist expanding, but it’s so worth it.

My mom doesn’t cook, but she has a tendency to go overboard with small dinner parties. Today, she’s hired two personal chefs along with an army of sous-chefs; and they’re busy chopping, peeling, dicing, cooking and prepping.

Catching a buzz from their hustle and bustle, I grab a box of matches and sidle out of the jam-packed kitchen. I may as well make myself useful elsewhere. There are too many cooks in this kitchen and I don’t want to spoil the broth.

Twelve rustic candles make up the centerpiece of the oblong dining table. Striking a match, I light the candles one by one and instantly feel invigorated by the scents of autumn; the smell of an Indian Summer’s slow farewell.

Feeling someone’s eyes upon me, I look up and catch Mika watching me with interest. I return his gaze, staring at him with a sort of insolent appreciation.

Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he’s dressed casually yet impeccably in black slacks, black button-down shirt, black leather belt, and black leather shoes.

He’s bringing sexy back, and I’m loving his swagger.

“You look lovely, Maddy. Nice dress.”

“Thanks.”

My dress is boldly embellished with a huge rosette appliqué, and it could have gone one of two ways with this dress: incredibly kooky or incredibly chic. Methinks it errs on the latter, and I’m glad Mika seems to think so too.

Even my T-strap heels are decorated with rosettes, and spring bouquet studs adorn my ears.

I’m a walking arboretum.

“So, what time will your relatives be here?”

“Anytime now,” I hesitate. “Um, I have to warn you though, my Aunt Benedicta can be a bit snarky at times.”

In Latin, Benedictus means ‘blessed.’ And my aunt sure is blessed. Blessed with arrogance, egotism and conceit. Some may consider those traits a curse, but not my Aunt Benedicta. She considers it a blessing from above.

“And her husband Stuart is the perfect match for her. He’s super smarmy.” And together those two are a frightful combination. “You’ll see…” I crinkle my brows. “Even my cousin Constance is a constant pain in the rear.”

Ding! Dong!

“By the way,” I say hurriedly. “My Uncle Stuart has strabismus. Basically, he’s cross-eyed. So, if you’re not sure which eye to look at, just stare at his hairpiece, okay?”

“O-kay,” he says tentatively.

“C’mon, Mika.” I hook his arm. “Let’s go meet them.”

“Beatrice! So lovely to see you again,” Aunt Benedicta clips in her fake British-Madonna accent.

“And you as well,” tinkles my mom.

Then they swoop in and give each other the tepid two-cheek Euro air kiss. I swear sometimes, they address each other as if they were two strangers at a wedding.

Eyes sharp as needles, Aunt Benedicta spots me standing in the corner of the foyer. “Mah-dih-shon, dah-ling,” she trills in her over the top soap opera voice.

I reach in for a hug, but she immediately halts me, causing her Tiffany bracelets to jangle up and down her sinewy, veiny arms. Then she puts up her face for an air kiss and I freeze.

Does the right side come first, or the left? Does it matter?

Like air guitar, air kisses just aren’t the real deal, so I never bothered educating myself on the proper etiquette.

I wait for Aunt Benedicta to take the lead.

Grabbing my shoulders, she brushes her feathered lips on my right cheek, and then the left.

Then her critical eyes fall on Mika. She sizes him up and down with shrewd evaluation.

I make the introductions. “Aunty Benedicta, this is my friend Mika.”

“Meeeeeee-kah,” she enunciates, contorting her mouth in