“New Years Eve, and I’m alone again. I sit in my apartment, curtains closed, though against the cold Chicago wind or my own reflection in the glass, I’m not sure. The dryer is on, permeating the apartment with its rhythmic hum. Whites, tonight. An uneven number of socks.
Every so often I hear a firecracker, or breaking glass, loud laughter, fueled by the champagne everyone cracks open before midnight. But it’s quiet, here, my only company the simple domesticity that so many women found solace in before me. I’ve turned all the lights on, from the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the bathroom, the bedroom, the closet. My clothes are folded, the dishes that have been living in the drain for a week have been scrubbed and put away; the soap scum was scrubbed from the shower curtain an hour back, and every magazine has been stacked by month.
The drier clicks off, finishing it’s cycle, and I sit on the couch, my feet folded underneath me. I look around. The apartment is silent. I am lost. You are gone.
I would make you love me, if I could. I would make you come back up the stairs, unpack your bags, and kiss me hello. I’d make you a New Years Resolution, not caring if you hate them, and you’d never, ever be able to hurt me again.
But instead I’m here, alone, on the last night of the year, and as the countdown begins and a new beginning approaches, I turn out the lights and pour myself a drink.
I’ll fold the white’s tomorrow.”