At Sunrise

Neighbors could hear the obscenities shouted from the fourth story window on the eve of the New Year. Couples shuffle back from dinner reservations and small children cling tightly to their mother's hand. All who come back are coming back before midnight. And all could hear the profanities that hang in balance from the fourth story window above. Ugly words that suck out  every morsel of  air inside until the window must open, again and again. 

 In some twisted way, it's rather poetic that they couldn't have a quiet night on the eve that's measured in promises and new horizons. They couldn't simply  eat their steak dinner and store-bought cocktail shrimp. They couldn't simply watch the shimmering ball drop in Times Square on television as Frank Sinatra's voice travels to living rooms nationwide. 

I want to wake up in a city that doesn't sleep

And find I'm king of the hill

Top of the heap

 

That would have been too  easy. Instead, they continue the same argument they have been having for two weeks, spiraling further and further into an abyss of meaningless anger, utter irrationality, and pervasive impulsivity.

Doors slam shut. Voices are drowned out by shaky sobs as midnight ascends upon them, an invisible marker of time, missing them entirely. When the clock strikes twelve and the ball drops, their night is obliterated into shattered pieces.

*

Come early morning, the sun rises, as the sun always does, and they are nestled in bed, side by side. They are pulling one another close as the dawn of a new day comes into view.

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