Every house had a version of Christmas morning that came after the wrapping paper. The living room looks like a storm blew through, somebody's asleep on the couch with a new toy still in the box, and the only sound is the tree lights humming. Over by the fireplace, the plate you left out the night before is down to crumbs and the milk glass is empty. That's how you knew he'd been there.
This is the other side of that night. Santa, finally off the clock, slumped back in a red wooden chair with his coat unbuttoned and his hat tipped down over one eye. His big black boots are kicked off on the floor, his striped socks are out for the whole world to see, and he's sleeping like a man who just covered the entire planet in one shift.
I made it for the slow part of the season: the long weekend after Thanksgiving, the movie marathons, the leftovers at midnight, and that quiet stretch between Christmas and New Year's when nobody knows what day it is. Pull it on, put your feet up, and take a page from the big guy. The work's done. Time to kick back.
