Ten to Midnight

Ten to midnight.

On the opposite wall, the clock sings; silent under the din of the new year’s festivities. Its song plays quicker and quicker with every passing moment: faster and faster toward the rest of her life.

Toward the end of it, Talia thinks. But even in her half-drunk, bone-weary state, she knows she’s being dramatic. She’s not even halfway through her twenties.

But as the ticks and tocks push the minute hand further, she swears the gaps are getting smaller. The sand is running out of the hourglass. 

The passage of time, Talia thinks, is exponential, not linear. Childhood into adolescence was a lifetime. Middle through high school was nearly the same. But everything since then has been a blink. A single tick of the second hand. Spent breath vanishing from glass moments after it fogs. 

It can only get faster. Life only gets shorter.

Nine to midnight.

Talia’s fingers tap against the denim of her favorite pair of jeans. The motion reminds her of something: a little ritual she hasn’t thought of in ages. She used to do it to center herself, to calm down, to be present in the moment.

If Talia wanted to remember something, she would snap her fingers. When she was little, it was almost constant. So much to keep track of, so many anxieties to catalog, so many coping mechanisms to counteract them. It was a nervous tic, she’d realize much later.

But as she got older–as she learned how to handle herself–she would save it for special occasions. For getting second place in her school’s spelling bee. For a particularly fun birthday party. For something as small and simple as seeing a pretty caterpillar crawl on an orange leaf, defiant in the sharp autumn breeze.

Talia would snap her fingers and the moment would crystalize. If the moment was small enough, she might not even remember it until the next time she decided to take a snapshot. A scattered mind and a packed schedule meant that the gaps between them grew deeper and wider every time. Sometimes it was months. Sometimes it was years.

Eight to midnight.

Talia snaps.

Like the progress of the clock, the sound doesn’t penetrate the party’s noise. But she can feel its vibrations. She can feel her fingertips, a lifetime ago, going through the same motions.

How long has it been? Can she even remember the last time she took a snapshot? It must’ve been months ago. A day ago. A decade ago. 

All of it flows together into nothingness, and then comes apart into everything. It’s all too much.

Was she with Hazel the last time?

Was it before she transitioned?

Was her mother still alive?

In her wanderings, Talia finds her footsteps trailing forward toward an uncertain future. What will her world look like the next time she snaps her fingers? Will she be happy?

She hopes it will be better than this. Anything would be better than standing here, suffocating under this loneliness, trying desperately to catch Hazel’s eye from the other side of the room.

Seven to midnight.

The tightly-packed partygoers in the cramped space between them might as well span a mile of distance. It feels even further. Hazel nurses her drink, eyes very far away. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t revel in the celebration. She and Talia seem to be the only unhappy people here, and nobody else is sober enough to notice. 

Talia’s temper flares. She doesn’t understand what they’re doing here. She doesn’t know why Hazel’s solution to conflict is to fill the distance between them with people they don’t care about. She doesn’t get why Hazel does this to herself—to both of them—so often.

Talia knows it’s an uncharitable, frustrated thought, but she’s so tired. They could be at home, cozying up with a bottle of bubbly and a stack of old movies. She knows for a fact they’d both be having a better time.

Sometimes it feels like Hazel does this simply to punish her, but that’s a the sort of uncharitable idea Talia isn’t comfortable entertaining.

Hazel finally meets her eyes. Talia works to soften her expression. But Hazel looks away just as quickly. All she saw in Talia’s face was the frustration, the resentment, the exhaustion. All Hazel ever seems to see is the angry little girl Talia can’t bury. No matter how deeply she tries to breathe in the passage of time, all she exhales is vitriol. She can't stop lashing out. She can’t stop hurting Hazel.

Six to midnight.

Talia takes a deep swallow of her drink. It’s disgusting: too sour, too bitter, too much liquor. And it’s not working fast enough. The clock keeps ticking.

It’s arbitrary, she understands. The new year means nothing, the same way president’s day means nothing, the same way all the other pointless holidays mean nothing. The only thing that will change in the next five minutes is a couple of digits on a clock.

But her anxiety builds, bubbles, threatens to overflow. The idea of starting the new year on bad terms turns her stomach.

Or maybe it’s the tequila. She never much cared for tequila.

She finishes the rest of her drink in one burning gulp, swallowing some of her pride with it.

Five to midnight.

She weaves through the crowd, knocking elbows and shouldering past sweat-soaked bodies. Hazel looks at her. She says nothing.

Talia grinds her teeth together, leaning against the wall beside her.  What is she supposed to say? Why does she have to start the conversation? She compromised by coming to the party. She was the one who closed the distance.

Why does it always have to be Talia?

Four to midnight.

“Having fun?” Talia asks, hoping it doesn’t sound as sarcastic as it tastes.

“Yeah,” Hazel says, sounding about the same.

The anger sizzles inside her again. Why can’t Hazel just be honest? But Talia swallows it, and pretends that pushing it down won’t make the resentment grow. She turns her eyes away, hoping it will help her stay steady.

The rest of the partygoers are a gaggle of guys and gals and gays and theys, smiling and drinking and dancing and kissing. Talia wonders if Hazel wants to trade places with any of them. She wonders if Hazel wants any of them. She wonders if Hazel wants any of them to rescue her.

Three to midnight.

“Can we talk?” Talia asks.

“What?” Hazel says. “Now?”

“Good a time as any, right?”

“It’s a little loud.”

Talia faces her. “What can I do?”

The desperation in her tone is pathetic.

“What?” Hazel leans in. “I can’t hear you.”

Talia meets her halfway, their noses almost touching. “What can I do to make it right?”

She still can’t feel the liquor. She can’t feel the body heat from the packed-to-bursting room. She can’t feel the unsteadiness of her legs, or the nervous sweat breaking out all over her body.

All Talia can feel is the sands running through the hourglass, and Hazel’s tired eyes fixed upon her. She would do anything to make Hazel stop looking at her like that. The need to fix this is cloying and urgent. She’d throw herself at Hazel’s feet and beg if that’s what it took.

Unless that’s precisely what she doesn’t need.

Talia pulls back, chest aching.

What if all Hazel needs is for Talia to let things lie?

Two to midnight.

“Talia…” Hazel shakes her head.

“Anything,” Talia says, a little too loud, voice cracking. “I’ll do fucking anything.”

“Except apologize.”

Talia opens and closes her mouth.

Hazel smiles sadly.

“That’s… that isn’t…”

Talia blinks.

“I mean, it’s… I’m not…”

Hazel shuts her eyes.

“They’re just words. What can I do?”

Hazel nods.

One to midnight.

When Hazel looks at her again, there’s something like pity in her gaze. Under any other circumstance, it would make Talia’s blood boil. But all she can do is stare back through glassy eyes, knowing it’s what she deserves.

She’s still just an angry little girl who only ever learned how to lash out: one who’s too stubborn to apologize, and too prideful to make any effort to change. Maybe it’s all Talia ever will be. No matter how matter how many times she snaps her fingers, she’s still her.

Thirty.

“Hazel.”

Hazel’s eyes are shut again. Her glossy lips quiver under the lights of the party.

Twenty-five.

“Look, I know… I know I’m not good at this. I fucked up, okay? I know I did. I can… please, just…”

Fifteen.

Talia reaches a gentle, shaking hand out toward Hazel’s face. Hazel leans into the touch. Her wet eyes flutter.

Ten.

They stare.

Nine.

Their lips part.

Eight.

They say nothing.

Seven.

Neither knows whose mascara runs first.

Six.

“I love you.”

Five.

“I love you.”

Four.

It doesn’t feel like a reconciliation.

Three.

Maybe it’s too late for one.

Two.

“Hazel, I’m–”

One.

The kiss isn’t loveless. It isn’t polite, or brisk, or lacking in intimacy. It’s deep. It’s gentle. It’s intoxicating: the way that kissing Hazel always used to feel. Talia wonders when it stopped feeling like that.

When they pull away, Hazel is smiling. It is a sad, regretful smile: the kind Talia imagines a doctor offers when they’re searching for the gentlest way to tell a dying patient they’re running out of time.

They press their foreheads together. It takes everything in Talia not to break down entirely.

“Happy new year,” Hazel whispers, breath heavy with the acid stench of liquor.

Talia doesn’t reply, too afraid to find out whether or not it’s a goodbye.