Fizzle

It's overrated.

“Happy New Years,” I deadpan. Midnight. The crowd on TV cheers, and I flick it off. Somebody's kissin' their sweetheart, someone's making a resolution, and here I am. Watching as they pulled Dick Clark out of the morgue for yet another year of depressing realization: It's another year, and no one's accomplished s**t. To top it all off, the years hottest going nowhere stars, such as Ke$ha, are there in scanty clothes celebrating. Oh, don't forget Ryan Seacrest. Always the charmer in front of the cameras. I secretly hope he f***s w****s and gets drunk, just like the rest of us.

Not me. My sweetheart's at a party, trying to schmooze up his boss. Woe is me. In my pajama slippers and an unopened bottle of champagne. In fact, I'm popping open the top right now, if I can find the bottle opener.

Martin swings the door open, not yet hammered, but buzzed enough to not be aware I'm standing right there until I say something.

“Hello.” It's more of an accusation then a greeting.

“Hi, Jenna.”

“How was the party?” I ask, rummaging around in drawers to avoid eye contact.

“Awesome. But not fantastic. You weren't there.” He slides his arms around my hips from behind, head resting on my shoulder.

“I'm not really a party girl.”

“It was fun.”

I turn around, hands on hips. “Oh, really? Did all of your dreams come true, hm? Make some new friends? Kiss that special girl at midnight?”

“You're my special girl.”

“Oh really?” I tuck my hair behind my ears, keeping my tears in my eyes. “Then why weren't you here? Why weren't you here to kiss me and love me and tell me that I was the only thing you wanted this year?”

“Because you weren't at the party,” he said simply.

“Sorry I was an inconvenience.”

He stares at me, and I stare back. Moments pass. Moments that he could've spent making it up to me, sweeping me off my feet. Instead he sighs.

“I'm going to bed,” he says.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“Jenna?”

“Yes?”

“Happy New Year.”

I sigh too. “Happy New Year, Martin.”

Then he's gone off to bed. My hands are clutching the bottle opener. I shrug, taking the cap off. The bubbles rise and spew out, making the floor a sticky mess. I'll clean it later. I take a champagne glass, and pour the liquid in, watching the bubbles stick to the glass. I sit on the counter, with my glass, pathetic.

“Here's to 2011. Let you be considerably more exciting, and hopefully less confusing,” I say to an empty room. Then I tip the glass to my lips in one heaving gulp.

Author's Note

It's a more or less true story of something that may or may not be happening right or wrong.

Reviews

[Bella-Marie]

Oh dear. What a bad relationship. Very sombre. And I liked it a lot. Thoughtful... :)

[roarke]

more or less, it's nice. happy new year THG.