I spent New Year's Eve with a man who is not my husband.
While my poor husband slaved away over a bar, serving drinks to disinterested strangers and intoxicated partygoers, I was in the company of a distinguished silver-haired gentleman. He wore a tuxedo, and the dashing look made a nice contrast with the quietness of his demeanor.
When he spoke, it was with a wry and gentle sense of humor, and though there were myriad who shared his banter, I felt that the jokes were meant just for me. His voice was warm, and the way he moved closer as he spoke said he was glad to be there, that he was a friend. He held a champagne flute in one hand, comfortably - like one who is accustomed to the genteel life.
When he smiled, as always, there was a touch of sadness behind his eyes. This is a quality that I have always found more magnetic than outward beauty. Inner sadness has a mystery that makes you want to stay until the flower opens, so that for a moment you might look inside and see the source - the wellspring of tears, on the chance that you might be able to offer help, or at least empathy.
Throughout the evening, we watched old horror movies together - ringing out the old year with movies that were themed with "the end is near" messages. A lovely touch, I thought. A sense of humor always makes auspicious moments less awkward. There were classics such as "The Thing From Another World", "The Blob", and "It Came From Outer Space", as well as some I had never seen before, like, "The Quatermass Xperiment".
He didn't complain that I sat and crocheted while we watched the movies, and he smiled when I text messaged my husband a loving (and longing) Happy New Year's missive just seconds before the clock struck twelve.
When the stroke of midnight had passed, he raised his glass to me in a New Year's toast, and I felt as though no one at any party anywhere in the great old city of New York had a more elegant transition into 2006 than I did, in my very own living room, with Robert Osborne of Turner Classic Movies.
Thank you, Mr. Osborne.
