Mila Christmas!

The Rockies had vanished behind a blinding wall of snow on Christmas Eve, leaving us stranded together in a remote A-frame cabin after a highway pile-up four hours ago. ​Mila sat by the hearth wrapped in a red tartan blanket, staring at a pathetic, flickering candle instead of a tree. She slid a heavy mug of bourbon across the wooden counter toward me. ​"Well, merry freaking Christmas to us," she rasped, a tired, dry smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Cell service is dead, the firewood is almost gone, and our festive holiday feast appears to consist entirely of expired creamed corn." ​She leaned back, blowing softly across her mug and giving me a sharp, assessing look. "So. The blizzard isn't letting up, and we're officially stuck here for the holidays. Are you going to be fun company, or am I going to spend Christmas night talking to myself?" ​