New Year's Eve ...
It was a small plan, not much of a plan at all. But when it came time, I knew it wasn't right.
So I sat. And I thought. And then I went to the store.
And I found a lovely pear, tucked among the other pears. Just right, just ripe.
And I wandered among the cheeses and decided on brie.
And I came home and settled in for the night.
I built a board of pear and brie and walnuts that I'd toasted.
And I opened the Champagne I'd bought earlier in the day. (Which is really not Champagne, being domestic, but Champagne is lovely to say.)
And I filled a flute and let the eager effervescence subside and filled it more.
And I choose a cloth napkin.
"I love my life," I said, surveying my picnic.
And I tucked myself onto the sofa. (I spend every New Year's Eve with a certain auteur.)
And I fell under the spell of "Midnight in Paris," which I'd not yet seen, and more happily, about which nothing was known.
And I poured another glass. And enjoyed two of what I'd baked earlier in the day.
And I poured another glass. And remembered my favorite chocolate.
And now my house is quiet and warm and I am just a bit sleepy.
And so I shall go to bed.
And wake to a new year.