anatomy of longing.
The fireworks should have gone off right after the mantel clock chimed midnight, ringing in the new year. But they didn’t. I had a hard time lighting them, the safety foil around the fuse got stuck. I only managed to fire them at 1.07AM.
Three pinkish-purplish streaks of sparkles shot off in quick succession into a very grey but not fully black night sky over and across the rooftops of neighbouring buildings. By then the street below our terrace was almost quiet, the rowdy drunks gone. The bangs bouncing off the firewalls made a racket.
You were fast asleep by the time the fireworks finally went off but the noise woke you.
“Whoa! What the hell?” you yelled from the sofa through the terrace door.
“Hey! Happy New Year,” I said, the ‘Hey’ not sounding as festive as it could’ve, given the occasion.
“Midnight was ages ago,” you said, “And what took you so long, anyway? Firing’ ’em stuff?”
“I had trouble firing ‘em,” I said, “The thing to light was hard to get to. Sort of.”
“I bet it was,” you said, then added, “Shut the door, will ya? I’m freezing.”
“Now I know how to get them going,” I said, “Wanna have a look?
There was no reply, so I shut the terrace door and sat staring at the remaining fireworks.
Firing them was an option.
Watching the vapour of my breath was another.
