Jamie slouched in a chair in front of the stage where the nativity play was going on, watching the proceedings with bland detachment while he nursed a cup of punch. His dad was off chatting with some of his friends from work, leaving Jamie to his own devices.

The entire holiday had seemed increasingly weird and alien to him this year. None of the traditions or symbolism felt familiar; it was as though he was viewing them through some kind of filter that made them appear unrecognizably bizarre. A teenage virgin giving birth to a god, in a barn, in the middle of winter. Foreign dignitaries travelling across the desert to bring him gold and frankincense and myrhh, whatever those last two things were. And somehow the celebration of this event tied in with a completely different myth about a fat man in a red suit who employed midget slave labor and watched people throughout the year to weigh their deeds on a moral scale. What the hell was this holiday.

Jamie shook his head and took another sip of punch, wondering where the sudden cynicism had come from. Sure he'd been more than a little dour the past year, but so far he'd limited his incessant scrutinizing to things like his own future and how best to handle the parade of disappointment that was his life, not the internal consistency of holiday symbology.

Maybe it was just the depression talking. Who knew.