Sleeping in the on-call room is always hard. Tonight it’s doubly difficult as I’m waiting to see what goodies Santa has for me this year. Maybe he’ll bring me a non-ringing, non-vibrating pager... although, vibrating is kinda fun.
As if by magic, the Janitor appears in the doorway, leaning on his mop. Does that guy have nothing better to do than follow me around all day? I mean, why me? I know I’m devilishly handsome and charming, but seriously? And he’s smirking? Oh god, why is he smirking at me?
He quirks his eyebrow upwards. Still smirking. I swear, I’ve never seen a more disturbing sight.
It’s hard to keep one eye on the Janitor and look up at the same time, but somehow I manage it. A new super power! Yay, me!
Is that mistletoe?
Wow. I never thought I’d say this, but I look good in a tutu. I should definitely wear pink more often... and rhinestones. Yes, the sparkly is good. The Janitor is resplendent in a bright red soldier’s uniform--oooh, shiny buttons! And then I’m in his arms and we’re dancing a Pas De Deux beneath the--frankly rather phallic--Christmas tree. I’m mildly disturbed that my feet know the steps. A huge red music box plays the Nutcracker suite as the Janitor pirouettes gracefully around me, his smirk replaced by a... soppy smile. I can’t help smiling back at him.
A wet feeling blossoms down there; I look down and see that the Janitor--full of seasonal cheer--has generously mopped me.
"Idiot," he says and mops away down the corridor.
Hmm. I guess Santa was all out of coal this year.