Champagne for Two

I’ve always hated New Years Eve. At least, that’s what I liked to tell myself.

I strolled up the sidewalk, champagne bottle in one hand and clutch in the other, my stilettos continuously getting caught between the cracks of the walkway. What what this - Europe? What kind of fancy neighbourhood has cobblestone sidewalks, anyways? I was miserable. Every home looked like an upscale brick version of barbie-dream-house. Stuck in the pessimistic narrative that runs my life like a dark and twisted rom-com, I was startled out of my daze. 

“Slow your ass down!” A shrill voice echoed behind me. I turned around flustered, my new faux-fur coat whipping around my ankles in anger. There she was; teeny tiny, white-blonde hair, bright red lips, and full of life. She was chasing after me, tote bag in tow, clearly focusing on keeping her feet on the ground and her face off the sidewalk. I placed the bottle of champagne near my feet and lit a cigarette, watching her run towards me with a little too much excitement. I had to admit, I had moments where I understood her love for this particular holiday. Trees lined the sidewalk, their branches doused in strings of little white lights. Snow sat lightly on their leaves, and what the leaves couldn’t hold fell softly onto the walkway. The streetlamps were dim, and there was a slight cold breeze in the air. As much as I didn't want to admit it, something felt slightly magical about the evening. 

When she finally caught up to me, she leaned over momentarily with her hands on her knees to catch her breath. Within a second, she sprung back upright like a cartoon character, then flashed a huge smile.

“That cab driver had no idea where he was going,” she exclaimed, “I spotted you through the window and practically jumped out the door - classic tuck and roll!” She winked at me and grabbed the cigarette out of my hand to take a drag.

 I picked up my champagne and tucked it under my arm as we started to march down the sidewalk together. It was funny walking beside her. I already towered a good six inches over her, and a solid ten in heels. As we walked, she whimsically told me the story of her day and traded me my cigarette for the bottle of champagne, which she tucked into her tote bag. Classic Bee. Self-assigned “responsible” mother, holder of all things important. 

Going to parties with Bee was like riding a roller coaster. I knew the moment I agreed to be her plus-one, I’d be left high and dry in a time span of two martinis and a good pop song from some hit 90's boy band. When we finally arrived at the address - Bee triple checking her invite to make sure we were at the right place - we both stared up at the strange house in confusion. At least she was confused. I, on the other hand, was intrigued. 

“Freaky,” she frowned, staring upwards at what seemed to be a dark, unlit black brick house in front of us. No lights shimmered in the trees, nor in the windows of the home. The leaves all lay frozen in the lawn, which seemed to have been unkempt for months.  She reached out her hand in my direction, gaze still fixed on the Halloween-esque home, tapping her fingers together for my cigarette. I pulled it from my mouth - one lousy drag left - and placed it in her fingers.

“My kind of party,” I said, and nudged her jokingly. She then cracked a smile and we walked side-by-side up the steps to ring the doorbell. 

The front door was massive. Twisting and turning designs were carved into the wooden black door, and Bee hesitated to ring the doorbell. 

“I feel like I’m in a horror movie,” she shuddered, “I didn’t expect Christopher to want to spend such a magical holiday in Dracula’s mansion”. 

Ah, Christopher. Bee’s new fling from work. A simple man, your typical all-American hotdogs-and-beer-on-the-fourth-of-July kind of guy with a  “dogs welcome, people tolerated” sign in his front entrance. Gag. Bee finally reached out to the doorbell, pressed it, then promptly retreated her hand back to her side. She was acting like it was about to jump out and bite her. The door then slowly creaked open, a voice on the other end.

“Madam?” the voice said darkly. I rolled my eyes in a naturally dramatic fashion. What a sham. I then pushed the door hastily into the body behind the voice, becoming agitated.

“It’s effing cold out,” I chirped, “are you going to let us in or not?” The door then swung open hastily, revealing a half-drunken Christopher on the other side. 

“Brighten up, Wicked Witch of the West,” he laughed nervously. Bee let out a high-pitched, schoolgirl scream and hugged him tightly. “Happy New Year, baby,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her waist. “And welcome, ladies, the show is all yours.” 

I stepped in to what looked like a live action version of a Disney movie. An old Victorian home with decor so beautiful you could write poetry about it. Filling the tables were champagne waterfalls and fruit to last for days. Glamorous men and women sipped bubbly and danced, their laughter booming from each room to the next. I slipped off my fur coat and slung it over my arm, revealing a brand-new sparkling gold cocktail dress that I fought myself not to buy. Sparkling gold was so “I Love New Years Eve”. and I was not that type of girl. Suddenly, though, I found myself feeling smug over the fact that I went a little over the top. I seemed to fit in perfectly with the glitz of the rest of the guests.

Bee promptly reached into her tote to hand me my bottle of champagne, then slipped her arm into Christopher’s and blew me a kiss as she walked away. Typical. I sighed for a moment, taking in my surroundings, then headed straight for what looked like a Christmas tree made out of Champagne glasses. Placing my bottle on the table that held the meticulously stacked array of glasses, I stared at the top of it quizzically. Hmph. A little too tall for my reach, I decided, even in four inch heels. I looked around to ensure nobody was paying attention, then got up on the tips of my toes to stretch my arm as far as it could, aiming to reach the top. Suddenly, I felt a loss of balance, and in one swift movement I was on the floor, surrounded by the sound of crashing glasses.

“Miss, are you alright?” A deep voice echoed from above me. I slowly opened my eyes to see an impressively painted Victorian ceiling, accompanied by a perfectly stacked Christmas-tree-shaped champagne glass arrangement. Where did the voice come from? Suddenly I panicked; how hard did I hit my head? How have I been out long enough for these people to re-stack the glasses in front of my unconscious body? I started to become enraged at the thought of drunken elites stepping over me to rearrange their picture of champagne perfection. I closed my eyes to rub them.

“Miss - can you hear me? Are you okay?” The same voice. I opened my eyes once again to find a man leaning over me, open hand extended in my direction. I stared at him momentarily, caught off guard. He had jet-black hair and piercing grey eyes, the kind that felt like they were staring right into your soul. Stunned by his gaze, I was unable to formulate a sentence. Instead, I simply reached for his hand. 

He hoisted my up quickly and effortlessly, as if I was a feather.

“There you are, miss,” he whispered as he gently placed me back onto my feet, “just like brand new”. He winked at me, smiling a sinister half-smile. I smoothed out my dress, darting my eyes around the room nervously to see how many people were gawking at my mishap. To my surprise, nobody even seemed to notice I existed. Guests sipped their champagne with single pinkies in the air and flirted with one another over subtle touches to the arm and over-extended laughter at one-another’s jokes. It was like I wasn’t even there. Feeling partially annoyed at the lack of attention and partly relieved I wasn’t the laughing stock of the party, I finally focused for long enough to bring my attention back to my rescuer.

Looking into his eyes was like staring into the sea in the middle of a storm. Angry, beautiful, and full of dark colors that seeped together like a painting melting in a fire. 

“Miss?” he asked, ducking his head slightly to match my gaze. He placed his thumb on the outer edge of my eyebrow, “you’re bleeding. May I fix you up?”

I nodded briefly, still at a loss for words, and placed my hand in his. As he began to lead me through the crowd of party-goers, I wondered why I was having such a hard time formulating a sentence. This was very unlike me. Normally, I was the perfect combination of witty, sarcastic, and seductive. Maybe it was the two glasses of champagne I had before I left the house this evening, or the old hardwood floor breaking my most recent fall. Either way, I wasn’t about to believe it was about him. 

After passing through what seemed like dozens of dining rooms and endless amounts of elegantly-dressed guests, we paused our stride at the edge of a massive imperial staircase. In a sudden urge to let words escape, I turned to him and opened my mouth.

“Thank you,” I stated sternly, “but I think I can take it from here.” He laughed, almost sarcastically, as if I had said something funny.

“You’re bleeding, miss.” He stated.

Apparently, that’s all the convincing it took. Suddenly I was being swept up the stairs in a fashion that was much too smooth for my comfort. How did I go from stern and hard-headed to melted butter in a matter of minutes? Did I have no dignity? I glanced down at the tiny rose-gold watch on my wrist. 10:01 pm. Plenty of time to let stranger-danger bandage me up before I could  go on my merry way to find Bee in the sea of elites. 

We eventually ended up in a bathroom the size of a small bungalow. The floor was made of glimmering white marble tile, so shiny I could nearly see my own reflection. Ivory columns stood at each corner of the room, carved with vines and leaves so delicate you’d think they were picked frozen from the ground. Frozen leaves outside the front step… hmm. 

He led me by the hand to a single white stool that was oddly placed in the middle of the room. In front of me was a his-and-her white marble sink set with a pair of crisp white hand-towels stacked neatly in between them. Strangely, no mirrors hung above the sink. I briefly thought to myself how odd that was, then shook off it off as I realized I may have just hit my head a little too hard.

“I’m sorry I caused such a scene”, I finally choked out. It was about time. 

He smiled at me as he elegantly picked up one of the hand towels and soaked it under a stream of hot water. I couldn’t help but notice how he moved with such ease. Like one movement continuously flowed into the next. A dance, of sorts. Once the edge of the towel was soaked, he made his way over to me - I was hunched over in the stool and morbidly embarrassed - and began to dab at my eyebrow. He was so soft, so delicate. His touch was as light as air, almost as if he wasn’t touching me at all. It was a strange sensation that I’d never felt before. And suddenly, I became lost in the narrative in my head again.

“Chestnut brown,” he said softly, brushing my hair from my face. I looked at his empty hands and noticed the bloody white cloth had already been placed in the sink, as if time had skipped a beat. What was happening? Am I so dazed by the fall that I’d been losing it?

“Chest. Nut. Brown.” He smirked, as if he was telling an inside joke that I clearly wasn’t part of. I started to become frustrated again. His fingers pushed my hair behind my ear, then continued to trace their way down my neck, finally resting delicately my collarbone. And suddenly, I was elsewhere. 

Memories surged through me like a tidal wave. We sat steadily on two white horses, galloping through the Louisiana forest. The trees towered over us, so tall and slim you couldn’t even dream of climbing them. Beside us was a clear blue stream, accompanied by a couple floating along in a canoe covered with chipped white paint. I smiled as we passed them, then turned my gaze to him. He flashed his sinister smile and I blinked. In a split second, as I opened my eyes again, we were instantly in the parking lot of a diner. I perched on the hood of a red 1960 convertible corvette, and he stood in front of me holding a french-fry between his thumb and forefinger. Surrounding us was only the pavement, the glow of the neon “open” sign in the diner window, and more forest. He lifted the fry to my mouth, popping it between my lips, then kissed me. It was an all consuming kind of kiss. The kind that made you feel giddy, dizzy, like you’re floating in thin air. He pulled his lips from mine, and I glanced down at my rose-gold watch. 11:58 pm. Shit. I placed my hand on his chest, attempting not to notice the red pointed claws that I apparently considered fashionable nails. 

“It’s midnight, my love,” I stated. Why was I referring to him as my love? And why did it come so naturally?

“As I expected, miss.” He replied. Slowly, he began to dissolve into the air like cotton candy on the tongue. Eventually, he disappeared into nothing. I felt the sudden urge to cry, and I closed my eyes tightly.

I was startled by the hectic bang bang bang on the other end of the bathroom door.

“Get your ass out here!” Bee’s voice. I opened my eyes to find the same white marble, same ivory columns, and same his-and-her sinks. I looked down at my watch; 10:08pm. I stood up slowly, peering into the sink. No bloody towels. Just two crisp white towels, stacked neatly between the sinks. What in the world? 

“I’m coming, you Mama Bear!” A casual response was best. I looked down at my dress and smoothed it out with my hands, then brought my gaze back upward, startled to notice my reflection in a mirror that was now perched in front of me above each sink. I touched my face for a moment, double-checked the time, then walked casually to the bathroom door. 

“You okay, love?” Bee asked, “I only took off to get us champagne glasses. I'm such a mess - I knocked the entire thing down!” She was rambling, barely coherent, as per usual when she was flustered. As I half-listened to her continued story about the disappearance of drunken Christopher, I noticed my champagne bottle sitting neatly on the bathroom counter. Picking it up, I popped the cork and took a swig, then opened the door to find a mess of blonde hair and smeared mascara on the other side. I smirked and handed the bottle to Bee, who took an extra-long swig then wiped her mouth.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said, hanging my arm over her shoulder. Bee laughed, then followed my lead down the imperial stairs.

“Now,” I smirked, “tell me about this incident with the champagne glasses”.