Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXII

The day after

They are lovely decorations one day and heaps of rubbish the next. And there's only one cleaner

Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. The picture's perfect. You are in high spirits. A smile on your face, a skip in your step, a nod for every passer-by, a hum in your voice. Basically, the Walt Disney version of a classic fairy tale.
Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. All heaped on the floor. Some sorting to be done -- what needs to be junked and what needs to be stored for next year. Basically, the real picture, the day after.
Wintry morning. It's 7 am and my phone started doing rhythmical gyrations, keeping time with the ringing alarm. I woke up, my head still in a buzz. My throat had also gone a little sore with all that loud singing. We had missed out on a Christmas Eve party but had made it up on the D-day, actually night.
And after a few milliseconds of vagueness on that December 26 morning, the previous night's events flashed before my eyes. So where exactly had Shayan broken that wine glass of mine? I did not remember having gathered and disposed of the shards. 'Scrunch' -- I had just got off the bed and had stepped on some cookies on the floor. My heart let out a silent, agonising groan.
I was scared to leave the bedroom, scared of what clutter had been left around the house. Shiny gift wrappers (I actually love those kinds) lay around. So, like a good girl who has been taught nice, and economic, ways of life. I took each piece, flattened them, folded them and put them away in a bag, sans the cellotapes that were sticking around here and there.
The previous morning, I was decorating the place with carols as the background music. This morning, I had the husband's snores drifting towards me. I went and nudged him, and said in an irritatingly trilling voice, "Honey, wake up. See, the morning's so beautiful." My crooning sent him off to a deeper sleep. Or maybe he knew what was in store for him, and so he just turned to the other side and snored even louder.
I picked up soiled plates, empty wine bottles, the Christmas tree ornaments lying around, green and red ribbons entwined with leftover noodles. I picked out the tiny decorations from the heaps of rubbish and put them carefully back in a jewellery box in which I store such precious little things. By the time I had scrubbed and cleaned, the Christmas spirit had drained out of me.
So, when my husband came up slowly from behind, hugged me (up to this was fine and romantic) and said, "Sweetheart, can you make a nice, warm cup of tea", all I had left to give him was a chilly, icy look. And I think he got the message.