Right, so I
Song/Title: Champagne Supernova
Word count: 500 (or so Gdocs word count tells me)
Bubbles steadily rising, bursting and popping almost in time with the cheesy music flowing through the speakers.
New Year’s Eve and all is well, he thinks as he glances to the clock: 11:45pm.
He takes a swig from his glass; the golden effervescent contents tickling his lip as the sticky, almost but not quite sweet, liquid runs down his throat. He feels nearly giddy as he drains the glass, and wonders if that had to do with the alcohol or the night. A waiter passes by and he quickly exchanges his empty flute for a full one.
She passes him by, hair sleekly done up in some complicated do that he doesn’t really like that much because he thinks her hair is better down, all flowing and soft. Although with her hair up it exposes her backless dress, and his eyes wonder over the smooth expanse; drinking her up like a man dying of thirst. He wants to talk to her, make witty banter and impress her with his shining intellect--but he won’t, knowing he’d most likely make an idiot of himself like he has in times past.
The clock is counting down now, people are starting to come in from outside waiting for the ball to drop. He sees her in the crowd, coming toward him and watches, stunned, as she stops next to his side.
“Hi,” she smiles.
“Hello.” He inclines his head and tips his champagne flute toward her.
They lapse into silence as people start shouting out the countdown; 10, 9, 8, 7.…
At the count of six she turns to him slightly and smiles a little wider, her eyes locking with his. He stands, frozen, the roar of the people around them dulled to a muted buzz as blood pumps in his ears and his heart races.
3, 2, 1--HAPPY NEW YEAR!
She leans up and brashly plants her mouth against his. His head is swimming and the world seems to tilt, but her lips are soft and she tastes faintly of mint and chocolate--the truffles they’ve been passing around the party all night.
After a moment, as the giddy people around them start the first straining chorus of Auld Lang Syne, she pulls back. Her lipstick is smeared slightly, but her eyes are glowing.
“Happy New Year,” she whispers and turns, melting back into the throng of people.
He blinks once, twice and then drains his glass again. Setting it down he finds another waiter passing by--this time with squat glasses full of amber liquid instead of bubbly gold. He gratefully takes one; relishing the burn of the Scotch as he takes a gulp.
He can see her now, on the other side of the room, laughing with friends and make up perfectly polished again. She giggles at her friend, but stops and stands a little straighter. Glancing toward him she gives him a wink, but her attention is called away by her friends. He toasts her anyway.
Happy New Year, indeed.