The music and revelry did not stretch to that part of of town. The frequent fireworks did little to light up the row of filthy houses and abandoned shops, merely illuminating the grimy walls in bursts of neon before they were plunged back into gloom. The excitement of a New Year could not be found around here, in a tiny back street that time and the local council had forgot. The party had ended long ago.

A small old woman sat in a grubby pub, propped up alone in the corner. She was ignored by the other grey and fading patrons; she could hardly be seen for all the smoke and anguish that surrounded her. Unlike her, slovenly, silent companions though, she was dressed in her finery. Strings of tarnished pearls and discoloured diamonds hung in coils around her neck, and each finger was studded with stones that struggled to sparkle in the dim light. A magnificent, moth eaten fur had been delicately draped around her shoulders, and a dust filled, ostrich plume hat had been carefully placed on the table beside her, steadily soaking up a puddle of spilt whisky. She did not care, instead staring at the door. She would stay that way, her thicky rouged face etched in concentration, refusing to even turn her head, until the church bells chimed twelve and the town erupted in the celebrations of the new year.

Perhaps this New Year’s Eve, he would come back for her.

Submitted by fullstops

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