Santa Close

Chop. Chop. Slide.

Max’s knife moved in rhythm against the cutting board.

He wore an apron over his bare chest, tied loosely at the waist, the fabric brushing against his skin every time he shifted. A faint sheen of sweat caught the light.

He leaned his hip into the counter, shoulders loose, head nodding as “Treasure” by Bruno Mars played softly from the small speaker balanced near the sink.

The apartment was alive with sound and scent.

Onions sizzled in the pan, turning soft and golden as seasoned beef strips browned at the edges.

Max sang along, loud and unapologetic.

“That is what you are..,” he crooned, dragging the words out with theatrical enthusiasm. “You’re my golden star…”

He pointed the knife at the empty room like it was an audience. “You know you can make my wish come true.”

The song swelled. Max spun once, careful not to slip, then laughed at himself. Cooking nights were his favorite kind of night. No rush. No expectations. Just music, heat, and something honest coming together in a pan.

He slid the sliced bell peppers into a neat pile, tossed them into the pan and stirred.

“Almost there,” he told the food.

The pan hissed once and went quiet.

Max stood over the stove, wooden spoon frozen midair, listening to the silence. It felt personal. He turned the knob again. Nothing. Not even a flicker.

“No,” he said lightly, like it was a joke he had not quite understood yet.

Max leaned down, still humming under his breath as the music carried on without the pan.

He checked the burner, then straightened with a slow breath.

Max wiped his hands on the hem of his apron and crossed the narrow kitchen. The apartment around him was modest but intentional. Neutral walls. Clean lines. A couch that had come with the place, minimal decor. Nothing extravagant or accidental.

Max liked it this way. Abstract and calming.

He opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the gas cylinder. He lifted it once, then again, as if the weight might change the second time.

Empty.

He set it down and stared at it for a moment, then laughed once, short and surprised. “Of course.”

The music kept playing, bright and relentless. Max let it run. He liked the contrast. He turned the heat knob one more time, just in case the universe felt generous.

It did not.

He slid the pan off the burner and set it aside. The beef glistened, uncooked centers visible, caught in the middle of becoming something better. He stood there, hands on the counter, breathing in the scent of food that would not finish cooking.

He turned the music down and wiped his hands on a towel. The silence that followed was gentler now, not abrupt. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. Then, without much thought, his banking app.

The number blinked back at him.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah”

He could refill the gas tomorrow if he stretched things. Or he could wait a few days and simply eat bread, eggs, things that didn’t require much heat.

Max closed the app and tossed the phone onto the counter. He grabbed a loaf of bread and popped two slices into the toaster. Dinner adjusted itself.

He had been out of work for a month.

Not unemployed in the dramatic sense. Just between things. Contracts ended. Gigs wrapped up. People said they would call and sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn’t. Max had learned not to chase too hard. Chasing made things feel heavier than they needed to be.

He liked his life. He liked waking up without an alarm. He liked choosing his days. He liked knowing that if something stopped working, he could adapt without falling apart.

Still, there were moments.

The toaster popped. Max spread peanut butter thinly and ate standing up, scrolling through his phone with his free hand.

His phone buzzed.

He smiled when he saw the name.

“Ethan,” he said as he answered. “Tell me you’re calling to rescue me.”

“Define rescue,” Ethan replied. “Because I can offer pasta and unsolicited advice.”

Max laughed. “I’m listening.”

“What happened this time?”

“My stove quit on me in the middle of cooking.”

There was a pause. “That’s not dramatic enough. Say it again like it ruined your life.”

Max smiled despite himself. “My cooking fuel ran out mid cooking, and now I must face the consequences of my financial choices.”

“Now that’s more like it,” Ethan said. “You want to come over? I made too much pasta.”

Max hesitated. He pictured Ethan’s place, warmer, louder, always fun and lively. He liked being there. He also liked not being the friend who always accepted leftovers.

“I might,” he said. “Let me see how the night settles.”

“You say that every time.”

“And sometimes I mean it.”

There was a pause. Then Ethan cleared his throat. “So. Any luck on the job front?”

Max shrugged, though Ethan couldn’t see it. “Still quiet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Max said, because it mostly was.

“Hey, so” Ethan started, voice shifting into something casual that never fooled anyone. “There is this other thing.”

Max straightened. “I knew it. You never call just to be kind.”

“Please. I’m always kind.”

“Dangerously kind,” Max said. “What is it?”

“There’s a seasonal job opening near my place,” Ethan said. “I thought of you.”

Max closed his eyes briefly. “Ethan.

“Just hear me out.”

“I am hearing you out,” Max said. “I’m also preemptively declining.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet. It pays well,” Ethan added quickly.

“No.”

“And it’s temporary.”

Max shoulders relaxed a fraction. Temporary usually got his attention. “Go on,” he said, against his better judgment.

“It’s a Santa gig,” Ethan said.

The word settled between them, heavy and absurd.

Max laughed once. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I am not Santa,” Max said. “I do not look like Santa. I do not sound like Santa. I am thirty-three years old and I have tattoos on my arms. shit like that is usually meant for older people."

“Long sleeves,” Ethan said. “Solved.”

“This is not a problem solving situation,” Max said. “This is you pitching me nonsense.”

“You’re good with kids.”

“Not as Santa. I would terrify children” Max said. “Different category.”

“They provide the suit.”

“That does not help your case.”

Ethan pushed on. “It’s the City center. Photos. Events. A few weekends. It pays enough to get you comfortable again.”

Max did not answer right away.

He looked around his apartment. The clean counters. The half-cooked meal. The empty gas cylinder.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

“That’s all I ask.”

They said goodbye a minute later. Max stayed where he was after the call ended, the quiet settling back in.

Santa.

He imagined the suit. The beard. The expectation of magic. The idea suffocated him.

He also imagined cooking dinner without doing mental math first.

Max picked up his phone again, the screen lit up. He was at jobjolt.com to see if there was any notification or miracle message. None.

Sigh