(a collection of independent vignettes)
She could see the bottom of the glass once again. Twirling it in her hand, the bare remnants of froth shifted from one side to the other. It looked like the melted snow outside, when in reality it was the dregs of a third glass of eggnog.
“Poor me.” she laughed. Unsteady and a little sick, the woman rose from the armchair by the dying fire. Its crackling was almost silent since it was now midnight. First a chair and then the table got in her path but through determination and reckless luck she made her way back to the counter where the punch bowl was waiting.
One ladle, two ladles, and another half. Now her glass was full once again.
Even though she was not.
“Merry Christmas to me.” she breathed, and downed the fourth glass. Maybe this time it would fill her up.