SANTA: So what is it you wanted to tell me?
ELF: I don’t think we can see each other any more.
SANTA: What? No, listen, we can make this work.
ELF: How? We’re both married. We should end it now before someone gets hurt.
SANTA: But, my wife, she’s nothing. It’s you I want to be with.
ELF: I want to be with you too, but it’s just not possible. I’m an elf. And you’re Santa.
SANTA: That means nothing.
ELF: I wish it did. But people would never accept it. We’re different species. Technically. I think.
SANTA: Oh screw people. Let’s run away together. We’ll get on my sleigh, fly somewhere hot. Away from the snow and the endless tinsel.
ELF: We can’t. What about Mrs. Claus? What about the present factory? What about Christmas? You’ve got a good thing here. I can’t be the one that spoils it.
SANTA: Just one more weekend together.
ELF: No, we have to end it now. My husband’s already starting to suspect something. Asking where the sherry keeps going. Why there are Reindeer hoof prints on the roof. The other week he found a half-eaten mince pie. I had to pretend it was mine, but he knows I hate them.
SANTA: I’ll be more careful then. I’ll clean up my pies. I’ll bring my own sherry.
ELF: No, you don’t understand, it’s over.
SANTA: So, what? You’ll just stay with your husband?
ELF: Yes, Phillip’s a good man. OK, he doesn’t excite me in the way you do or give me the same shuddering orgasms, but he’s got a good job and he’s well respected in the elf community. I could’ve done a lot of worse.
SANTA: So this is it then?
ELF: This is it.
SANTA: I’ll miss you.
ELF: I’ll miss you too.
SANTA: One last kiss?
ELF: OK…. oh.
ELF: There’s some mince pie your beard.
ELF: No, leave it. I like it.