Beating the Dawn

They welcomed the New Year in a triumphant cliche. Her hands felt clammy after holding his and she let go precisely the same moment when the air became filled with something else's molecules. If he noticed, he would pretend not to be hurt, and go on staring in the dark. In her mind, every inch she took away from him was marked, measured, and assessed. The harsh verdict, she never quite cared to find out. If she looked past his ungainly habits, she was sure she'd be able to love him at her worst. But there were so many things to look past in him, so many troubles she had to undertake in order to fully understand him. And at the threshold of New Year, she felt, unmistakably, his words reaching out to her. No, it couldn't have ended that way: the words that should've been there melted into the mildly crackling bits that both knew were cheap fireworks. The last surviving legacy of yesterday's dynasty. Instead of meanings, there was air. Just flat air. He moved his hands away as he took her cue. He flicked his cigarette butt to the dark corner where its faint ruby light slowly diminished until it was out of sight. Scattered glass creaked underneath his soles as she watched his figure retreat down the short concrete pathway. Wiping her hands with her shirt, she recognized in his absence his dead devotion. As for hers, who could vouch for its existence evermore?

The smoke cleared off and gave way to the darkest purple night of the year. It was also the first day of that year.