Park Street

In the front yard:

Our host tumbles from an old oak tree.

Time freezes, momentarily, before lurching forward, and in that brief instant of suspension I can envision it – his broken form on the ground below. The fall can’t have been more than eight feet, but I’ve never know anyone as fragile. He once sprained his wrist while taping a box shut.

He stands and rallies, my fears assuaged; the small crowd that has gathered responds with applause. I’ve no doubt he’ll feel the impact of his fall later, but for now adrenaline and alcohol will get him through.

He quickly climbs back up the tree, and it is only at this point I realize Rachel is seated amongst the branches, waiting for him. I suspect they’ve been sleeping together, and I’m curious if his wife suspects it as well. Rachel’s presence at this particular juncture neither supports nor negates my theory, it just makes them two drunk idiots in a tree on New Year’s Eve.

 

In the backyard:

Randall is standing on the deck, eyes half-hooded and pupils blown, ranting about bioluminescence. My husband sits, listening in amused patience, as though we haven’t all heard this one before. As though it isn’t one of Randall’s favorite rants.

I lean back into a nearby adirondack and listen to him speak about luciferase and luciferin, always making sure to note what he deems as the significance of their latin root. Eventually I close my eyes and deepen my breathing. Feel the cold against my cheeks and fingers; sinking in through my thin coat. I stay this way until it’s time to go inside, toast, and welcome 2014.

 

Inside:

I seek out the quiet spaces, settling on a sofa in the den. Caleb tells me about a new commission, a mural for a restaurant downtown. Jamie wants to me dance but I decline. (Dancing suits women like Jamie; it doesn’t suit me.) Kate runs her fingers through my hair and brings me drinks.

Hours later I am in the hall, waiting for the bathroom. The tone of the gathering has shifted. Half of the crowd left after midnight, and the remaining half seems bent on something close to full debauchery.
I am simply waiting to go home.

There is a man standing before me, someone I’ve never met before, and I feel the sudden need to apologize for my advanced state of drunkenness.

“I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this. It’s not usually like this.”

I feel foolish as soon as the words escape my mouth. Why does the opinion of this stranger matter to me when I’ll almost certainly never see him again?

Our hostess has overheard my little speech. She catches me by the wrist, holding it tight. There is a long history that stretches between us, a history that once looked something like friendship, but all I can feel in this moment is her anger. I don’t understand it, and I can never predict when it will appear.

“You’ve never been better than us.”

Her words confuse me. I arrange and re-arrange them, looking for an explanation – something to decode this unwarranted response. I could blame the alcohol for my confusion, but my thoughts are suddenly, painfully lucid.

It’s the words she doesn’t say that weigh far heavier. In this moment I can see how she feels about me, perhaps how she’s always felt about me. All of the times she hurt me, the vitriol she’s directed my way because of her own regrets. I think about the relationships she has ruined for the both of us and I realize this is it. This is the last time I let her do this to me.

I’m not sure what the new year will hold, but it has to be different. It will be different.

And it’s another two years before my resolution takes.