When I lived in a commune in Boston with the man I once thought I would spend the rest of my life with, I'd flown home to have a few holiday days with my parents in the Carolinas. My flight back was on New Years Eve, due to arrive well before ten thirty and from there I would take a taxi to Brighton, on the other side of the city. The plane was running late, but I picked up a bottle of champagne at the airport when we landed, stashed it in my bag and shared a cab with another woman headed in the same direction.
Already the night was lit up with firecrackers, the streets filled with people rushing in groups to god only knows where to bring in the new year. By the time we were parallel with the Boston Commons the crowds spilled out into the street and traffic was at a standstill. I looked at my watch. R was expecting me by now and it was already 11 30. When we hadn't moved more than a block in the next twenty minutes, I told the cabbie to open the trunk. I pulled out the bottle of champagne and as the countdown, that magical 10...9...8...sounded out all around us, I popped the cork and the other woman, the cabbie and I guzzled our toast from the bottle. For a moment, we were caught in a time freeze...the moon so high in the Boston sky it floated like a pregnant woman on the smoke drifting up from the fireworks.
Finally, traffic started moving again. A half hour later I was hurrying up the steps to the commune, bag thumping on the stairs behind me in one hand, half-bottle of champagne in the other, my love at the door, warming me with his kiss, the sweet taste of champagne still on my lips christening him with smoke, moonlight, fresh dreams and our own rush into a new tomorrow.