The stemware was fragile; unusually fragile for usage on New Year's Eve. The sensually fragrant and deep red contents sit warm, and as my fingers dance around the smooth wide base I am more aware of the deep red contents ripping through my veins. Beyond my existence with the glass, there is a beautiful man sitting only inches from my right side. His hands are smooth, thin; the left one lies on my right knee and bears a shallow scar on its back just below his middle finger and stretches to the crest between his thumb and index finger. I look down at it, rub it with my thumb and realize that I have no idea where it is from. Did he fight someone? Never. My mind sifts through the impossible options like that one, and then realize, knowing him, it was probably some inexcusable cooking accident. A smile finds its way to my cheek muscles.
Another sip from my glass is stolen, and I meet eyes with my love. His eyes are large, dark, and glistening just like the day we met back in a grungy student house in Hamden. Perfectly formed lips that he inherited from his mother morph into a crooked smile and he diverts his eyes down to my seemingly tiny hand that rests at home on his hand with the tips of three fingers tucked gently around then under his finger. I divert my eyes and take in the rest of the scene that has wonderfully framed the romance and love that swells in my chest. The light emanates from small rust-colored glass-sconces around the restaurant on faux-stucco walls and creates a warm and rich atmosphere. The chatter and laughter of the room filled with twenty- and thirty-somethings provides the ideal soundtrack for ringing in 2008. The room is not overly crowded and the cool breeze drifts in from the busy London street above. Bartenders, including our own Bruno, rush back and forth, one end of the bar to the other, fetching drinks for waiting patrons clad mostly in black and gray, and even sending drinks in a small "drink elevator" to the parched patrons on the second floor.
It is now 11:45. My love and I sip the last tempting drops of wine, grasp hands, and head for the street.
The cobblestone stood empty and untouched in front of us. A line of "Bobbies" clad in highlighter yellow stand like an impenetrable wall to our left with a sea of intoxicated Londoners crashing against them. The same wall to our right, with only a dozen or so people of the same nature dripping against it. As those patrons stumbled back up the street, my love called out: "Excuse me, are they letting people down that way?" The man responded with an uneven shaking of his head and lifted his left hand, confused at the police's blockade. His right hand occupied with the bony fingers of his leggy girlfriend. We walked around in the 100 yards of space between the two walls of police, trying to find a break between the buildings where we could just maybe see the fireworks over Big Ben that are the signature of New Year's in London. No luck.
We make our way up the street, break through the police wall, and holding that hand that I love so much, pressed through the dense crowd. It is now 11:50.
Now, I reflect and discover that the separation from my love has been a reliving of that night over and over again. Simple love and happiness behind us, walls and barriers around us, and obstacles that we can only get through by holding on to each other.
We weave through men, women and children like a high-speed video game; I, only able to see the back of my love's head, of his grey jacket, and his strong yet gentle hand, crash into the arms and torsos of strangers; much like the way, since the moment my plane left the soil of England, my shoulders have battled unrelentingly with paranoia, conniving females, misunderstandings and the misery of 3,500 miles. The crowd seems neverending, much like the misery.
Eventually we did find the end of the crowd. My love turns to see if I've made it through still holding on to him; he smiles at the sight of me. Our grasp remains firm, remembering the test of the crowd. Four months after I left that town, that night, that feeling, I find myself in this exact moment: the night sky dark with bright speckles of hope, the streets glisten and reflect the neon lights of the bustling city, and my love standing in front of me with his picture perfect smile and a perpetual hold on my hand and my heart. The fighting has finally ceased and the clarity of existing singularly and peacefully in the middle of such an insane evening is finally mine.
It is now midnight.
The crowd is unaware of the time, and the only signal we have is the fireworks over Big Ben. Over the tops of the aged buildings, we can see the flickers of celebratory explosions. The crowd has disappeared. The sounds have ceased. My love moves me in front of him, my back pressed up against his chest, as he wraps his arms around my waist and asks me if I can see the fireworks. I don't see anything. I don't hear anything but him. Tears build up in my eyes and pour out at the realization of what I had been pushing out of my mind for so long; I love him.
Now, as I sit alone in my luxurious yet cold apartment, I realize there are new thoughts and emotions that I have tried to supress and deny, but actually are the deepest truths of my existence. Again, in the company of hysterical-deafness and watery eyes.
