Up from the perpetual ice and snow of the North Pole his hind legs rose, invisible as the body they supported. His front paws rested on the sash of the bedroom window, his nose twitched, his eyes sizzled into the writhing pair of lovers upon Santa’s bed. He had chanced, the Easter Bunny had, upon far better entertainment than befriending corpses.
’Twas the night, you see, before Easter. And in this cottage, at the tail end of his rounds, two creatures were stirring it up quite nicely. Beside them, a white-haired woman, beautiful beyond describing, slept the sleep of the dead. The Easter Bunny’s eyes darted betwixt her and the humping couple. The contrast between their carnal frenzy and her innocent oblivion excited him no end. His heart pounded lubba-di-lubba-di-lub in an odd mix of envy, love, and outrage. Like erratic brushes riding a cymbal, his whiskers skritched against the glass.
How he adored peering in upon nocturnal copulations. Petunia’d once asked him why. She’d stared at him out of those vacuous, shit-brown eyes of hers as he lay spent on the burrow floor, peering up through the dimness. Why do you peep? he heard her say.
He shrugged. “Forgive me, dear Petunia, but I like seeing love happen. I like to pretend I’m the man who’s making the happy lady even happier. Even though I feel quite sad, suicidal even, right after my genitalia spurt, when the bubble of my fantasy pops and I’m not that man, it’s worth it to feel like I’m giving someone my love—someone alive and responsive—even for a few seconds.”
She didn’t speak to him for days after that. Just sat in her room and sulked.
Usually he had to slip out of magic time to animate the lovers he caught. No problem, most nights. But on Easter Eve, that was an extravagance he could ill afford. He simply had to get on with the business of distributing baskets and hiding brightly colored eggs in grass. There was his schedule to contend with, not to mention the Father’s stern face glaring out of the night if he dared dawdle. Whenever he chanced upon pudendal play, he was forced to limit himself to witnessing two seconds, tops.
But these lovers were different.
These lovers were themselves wrapped in magic time, though their beautiful companion languished in the real time of an open-mouthed snore. That meant he could stay and watch for as long as he liked, particularly since his invisibility, God bless it, hid him from immortals as well as mortals. He grew hot with desire at what he witnessed. Hot too with envy. Love for the adorable white-haired woman thumped in his heart; and in his head, a righteous anger at Santa’s adultery mixed with strange new thoughts indeed—disquieting thoughts that whispered around the corners of an obliterated past, whispered of powers lost and of divine betrayal.
Nonsense, he thought, shaking such notions out of his head and concentrating on the scene within. His scent glands drooled exudate down his chin and into the snow. His claws unsheathed against the sash. His penis poked out, red and hard, into the chill arctic air.
At the window, soundlessly, he chittered.
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