Marjorie looked out the window as she heard the crowd shout "Happy New Year!" on the television. There was something in the distance that looked enough like fireworks for her, and seconds later she began to hear the booming that confirmed it.
Still, staring out into the night wasn’t doing much for her. She wasn’t tired, wasn’t awake, wasn’t really anything. How could she be, alone in her apartment on New Year’s Eve? She didn’t even want to think about Bill, who was supposed to have come over and then called at the last minute to cancel. If it had been the first time he’d canceled this way, she wouldn’t have thought much of it, but he’d done it three times within the past month.
Just a few weeks ago, she thought she had something going with this guy, but now, as she looked at the empty room, her dinner plate sitting on the coffee table and her coffee grown cold beside it, there was no denying it. The solitary New Year was a sign. Time to move on.
Marjorie wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge door, and stared at the bottle of Veuve Cliquot inside. Just what the hell was she supposed to do with that now? She pursed her lips, trying to deny the smile that crossed them as she thought of whacking Bill over the head with it. “Ah, no,” she finally said. “Too expensive for that. A bottle of André would be better. Same effect, less money, and he’d be covered in cheap champagne. Perfect!”
Well, in any case, she wasn’t going to open it for herself. She’d have to invite friends over to celebrate—what they were celebrating didn’t matter—sometime soon, and they’d open it instead. She reached for a Bailey’s mini, hoping it would take the edge off the night and push her into the land of sleep.