Celebration

On television throngs of people dance in the streets of every major city
in the world. Outside my window, drunk party-goers do the same.
Seemingly, the celebration unites the universe.
I lean out the window and spin my tin noisemaker, holding its ridged
crank loosely in my fist. The rubber bands that keep my shiny, foil cap on my
head dig into my neck each time I shout, ‘Happy Fucking New Year.’
High-pitched shrieks fill the clear frigid sky. Next come deafening
explosions, each culminating in a wonderful display of colour. The smell of
spent fireworks permeates the crisp air.
I think about Jayne and sincerely hope she is celebrating this
monumental evening. I wonder if she's moved forward, found someone to
replace me tonight, or is she alone with her dog in some ratty apartment.
Realizing I am dwelling too much now, I pull the window shut and
go to the sofa. I fill my glass, then grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl
on the coffee table.
‘Happy Fucking New Year,’ I say, raising the glass.
My Labrador, Tag, responds by thumping his tail twice on the carpet
before resting his snout on his forepaws.