New Year's N(eve)r

It is shameful to post this early on New Year's Day, testimony to what I did on New Year's Eve.  I sat with the cat, drank champagne, and watched a movie.  Scintillating.  But I preferred this to attending a party at a friend's house.  I simply cannot celebrate on command.  Double whammy, though, it being Friday night.  I cared not, choosing to wait alone for the knock at the door.  It never came.  But the cat and I shared a tasty, long-aged Spanish cheese, and I sang to her a bit which she doesn't really seem care for.  For a moment, I saw images of N.Y.C. as I changed t.v. channels.  I've friends there and wondered what they would be doing.  In the city, I thought, it doesn't matter, though to those who are there I am sure it matters more than I imagine.  What would it be like to sit at home alone on a New Year's Eve there, the city a giant heartbeat all around you?  It is the stuff of art.  And that is what I felt last night alone in my own home, a piece of fiction being written, a painting in the works, a few chords of a new song hummed along with a tinkling piano.

I've never liked New Year's Eve.  I think early on I was repulsed by the maniac baby in a top hat.  Is that what the new year is?  No wonder people drink.

Year's ago, I received a phone call at midnight from someone I still loved.  "Happy New Year," she whispered.

"Where are you?"

"I've got to go."

"Wait!"

That was the worst one.  The rest is simply cake.