It had been snowing for the past hour and a half, yet none of it had stuck to the ground. It appeared like a drizzle of rain, prevailing only as a veil of which the purpose was to blur peoples’ views. Had it not been for streetlights in the distance, the snow would be hardly visible; it was illuminated under the ghostly yellow lights that were equally spaced along the roads.

She felt as insignificant as the snow was at that moment; it was there, and one could reach out and feel the moistness on their fingertips –  they would not be groping at air, but at chilled water that was palpable between their fingers. However, it did not make it to a surface, thus having little impact on everything as a whole. It did its part in making driving a chore and causing most people to require a hat and gloves before leaving the house, but otherwise it melted into an inconsequential emptiness; and that was just how Adalia de Lorraine felt.

It seemed to come across her every December thirty-first, this feeling of belittlement. Drinking never helped, but rather seemed to have the opposite effect, fueling an even higher need to down another flute of champagne. It was the same each year, and by now most of her friends and family had learned to ignore it. Lara had, at the least, and often reacted to her sister’s self-pitying with snarky words containing anything but sympathy.

She was standing on the balcony, staring out into the dreary-looking evening sky, fingers wrapped around the stem of her now-empty glass of champagne. It was mostly silent, save for the muffled sound of laughter and mingling coming from inside. Drunk business partners, old friends, and scarce relatives were hardly what she’d consider her crowd; at least, not now when she felt a need for nothing more than self-pity. She let out a sigh as she stared into her empty glass, wondering whether or not she wanted to face a crowd of people in order to satisfy her desire for alcohol.

“I’m gonna head home now.”

The voice startled her, and she had turned quickly around, nearly punching the voice’s owner in the arm as she did so. The words were those of Caleb Whealdon, who, due to her current state, she had not seen for the entire evening up to this point.

“It hasn’t even hit midnight yet,” she informed him upon stabling herself against the balcony rail. “You’re not leaving.” The second was a statement, one that left little to no room for objection. Thus, he stood there looking almost guilty as if he had done something wrong; which in her mind was exactly what he had done. “What have you been doing all night, anyway?” she asked accusingly, diverting her stare from Caleb to the still empty champagne glass she held in her hand.

“Around,” he said with a slight shrug. “I mean, you were . . . out here, I guess. You just sort of disappeared, and I wasn’t sure where to.” He watched her fiddle with the flute, twirling it as if it had remnants of liquid inside that had not been there six seconds ago. “I’ve acted as a wall-flower,” Caleb added, having received no response from her. “I’m bored, Adalia. I really just think I’m going to head home.”

Whatever reaction she had not used previously had crept out at this confession of boredom and desire to leave. “I already told you,” she snapped, “you’re not leaving because this is a New Year’s Eve party and it has not hit the fucking New Year yet!”

Easily swayed, he shrugged. Caleb wondered if he perhaps never had intention of going home, but ignored this idea and instead prided himself on the fact he had gotten a reaction out of Adalia de Lorraine. “Is there a reason why you’re outside in the rain?” he asked with slight offhandedness.

“It’s not rain, it’s snow. Shitty snow, if you ask me. Doesn’t even stick.” Dali once more turned her attention to the unbroken translucence of the champagne glass, feeling even more saddened by its lack of content.

“Oh, sorry. I couldn’t tell.” He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed slightly at the intense attention she was giving to the empty drink. “You, uh, want another drink?” He wondered if her sister had a limit on how much she was allowed to drink; he disregarded it if there was one, and allowed the question to go on un-countered.

She fervidly turned her face to him, giving more enthusiasm than he had seen her demonstrate prior to that very moment. “Yes,” she said sharply. “It’s about time you fucking noticed.”

“I –  sorry,” he said, unsure of why he was even apologizing. He had not even done anything wrong . . . had he? Shrugging inwardly, Caleb turned back into the house. “I’ll be right back.”

She watched him leave with mild interest, soon turning back to face the vast emptiness of the bustling cityscape mingled with the quaint and quiet countryside. A long sigh of discontent left parted lips as she knitted her eyebrows together, giving an uncharacteristic appearance of remorse. As if an accompanist to empty sorrow, she grew chilly, as if it were perhaps her body’s way of informing her she had spent the past hour and ten minutes outside in the rain-like snow wearing nothing more than a black pea-coat that served more as a fashion-statement than a sensible piece of winter outerwear. It was worn over an equally “chic” silver dress that barely went past the hem of the coat. It only made sense that cold would come over her, and it certainly had. Dali crossed her arms tautly over her chest, frowning in both sadness and cold. Regardless, she had no intention of going inside where she would be reminded of what a waste the past year had been.  

“Here you are.” He outstretched the hand which held a filled flute of champagne, looking at her. She did not return a glance or bother to say a word. Rather, she took the glass from his hand, downing it as if it were a shot. He knew she was a fan of alcohol, however did not realize she would inhale champagne as if it were tequila or vodka. He thought champagne to have an aura of elegance and class, and supposed he figured everyone else to have that idea too. She had just crushed the thought from his mind, though, as the liquid was completely gone from the sparkling glass. He half wished he counted the seconds (or perhaps milliseconds) it took her to drink the flute empty.

“You know,” she began, her eyes staring into the darkness that was interrupted only by streetlights in the far distance. “I make a resolution every god damn year. Always have. But frankly,” she turned to him, looking him in the eyes, “I don’t think I want to this year.”

Her voice had an almost accusatory tone to it; one would think there was an invisible person standing to her left, whispering orders in her ear. “Make a resolution,” it would demand in an austere whisper that, alone, would have enough effect to cause one, including Adalia de Lorraine, to obey.

“You don’t have to,” he said, having nothing else to offer aside from insane imaginings that he was sure were not true. “It’s not a rule or anything.” He shrugged, offering to take the empty glass from her. She handed it to him, muttering something that he thought sounded something like a thank-you.

“I know I don’t have to,” she said with edginess that could be matched only with the sadness she looked to be feeling. “Which is why I don’t want to this year. It’s always the same!” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat, but only after buttoning it up all the way.

“What’s always the same?” he inquired after having allowed decent time to let her answer without being prompted; she didn’t, so he went right on ahead acting as a cue-card.

“Resolutions!” she responded snappily. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all, Whealdon?”

He considered issuing a response, though decided against it before even opening his mouth. The question was rhetorical and to answer it while she was in such a state would be like asking for one’s death certificate. Caleb remained quiet, not allowing his amusement at her use of his surname to show on his face.

She continued forth with an explanation, one he was happy to receive without having had to ask. “I make one, every fucking year, and it never lasts past January. In fact, getting halfway through January is lucky. I’ve given up on logical resolutions, in fact. Just last year I said I wasn’t going to swear anymore. That lasted until about twelve-oh-two.”

“Twelve-oh-two?” She nodded half-heartedly, and he allowed a small smirk to show upon his face. “Impressive.” The sarcasm received a sharp scowl from Dali. He surprised himself with the sudden recklessness he portrayed and wondered if the champagne he drank earlier was finally taking its toll on him. He was never one to get intoxicated easily, and since his drinking was often kept to a minimum, drunken behavior was rare. He would not call his decision to mock Adalia (of all people!) an act of inebriation, but rather a stepping stone to entering the zone of tipsiness. He sighed inwardly.

“You better fucking believe it, Whealdon,” she said haughtily. As if to validate her inability to keep the resolution, she added, “If it hadn’t been for Jude being a stupid prick, I would have kept it longer.”

“Twelve-oh-five?”

“No, you asshole. You’re being a real jerk tonight, you know that? First you ignore me mostly the entire time, save for now; then you insult the party that I invited you to; and now you’re making fun of me,” she said in a huff. “I’d like to know what justifies you to be so smart with me.”

He blinked, moving his hands towards the pockets of his jacket, stopping only upon realizing he was still holding her emptied flute. Lost for only a moment, Caleb set it upon the banister. Hands now freed from the cold, he questioned her challenge.

“Jesus Christ, you’re stupid too. Are you drunk or something? I think you need to lay off the alcohol.” He thought that proclamation to be rather ironic, considering her seemingly astronomical intake of all sorts of alcohol. He didn’t say so, and instead smartly allowed her to continue. “Have you ever made a resolution and kept it?”

Caleb stood silent in thought, during which he noted that the snow was beginning to fall heavier, picking up its pace and managing to reach the ground. He looked at Dali, thinking she must of have been showing more skin than covering herself. He was not surprised by this, as he had learned that style came before practicality in her world. It had surprised him, though, that she was not yet frozen into a human-shaped, life-size popsicle. She couldn’t have weighed more than one-hundred-ten pounds, if even that; surely cold cut through her body like a knife through water.

He caught himself far from the question at hand, and proceeded to give more thought; had he ever fulfilled a resolution? “Yes,” he said finally, wondering how much time had lapsed during his mind’s tangent.

She looked at him as if he had committed blasphemy by keeping a resolution. Challenging him further, Dali asked him what it was he’d managed to do (or not do) for an entire year.

“Date.”

“You didn’t date. When?”

“Well,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t want to seriously date. Serious dating and casual dates are different. It was this year.”

She scoffed loudly, crossing her arms tautly over her chest. “You didn’t date this entire year –  that’s what you’re telling me? Why the fuck not?”

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he said with slight exasperation. “I didn’t seriously date. Non-committal, I guess I’d call it.”

“Casual sex.”

“No.”

“No sex?”

“A few times, maybe. I don’t really remember.” Caleb shrugged again, leaning against the banister in attempt to appear unmarked by her criticism. “But, after –  you know. After Faith ... left and all. I just thought, ‘To hell with women!’ and said I wasn’t going to get in a serious relationship. So I didn’t.”

“And you had no sex?”

“I told you already, I’m not really sure. I mean, it was an entire year and ends and beginnings mold together to form one blur of time.” He didn’t understand why she was so caught up on one resolution, and on a minor aspect at that.

“You’re a guy, Caleb. You can’t not sleep around,” she accused. “I’m a woman, and I don’t think I could just swear off sex for a year.”

“But it wasn’t that! Good god, Adalia. You’re just not grasping this concept. I didn’t want to get into a huge situation after, you know, being crushed by someone who I loved.”

She was silent, as if considering this. Her hands wandered back into their previous residence of her pockets, arms close to her body as if a way of keeping warmth in; it was futile, but she was far too deep in thought to show care. “Fine.”

He liked that. She said it as if she were a child who just lost her end of an altercation. There was such finality in the one word, the way she vaguely rolled her eyes and slightly pursed her lips as if to silently say there was not to be another word on the matter. “Fine,” he said quietly.

She turned her eyes upon the champagne glass, which was no longer entirely empty as it started to frost over, snowflakes collecting themselves in the bottom. It would not catch her off-guard if, before long, the glass was entirely full of snow and then some. She sighed slightly, beginning to feel restless. Dali turned her head to look through the glass French doors, eyes searching for a clock. She managed to find one, reading it quickly before a crowd of people stumbled in front of it. She sighed; 9:52.

“I’m sick of this,” she said, breaking the silence that had previously filled the air.

Caleb wondered if perhaps he had done something and that was what she was sick of; he couldn’t recall committing some wrong-doing, even by Dali’s standards. With an inward sigh, he asked, “What?”

“This,” she said emphatically, throwing her hands into the air in an act of what looked to be defeat. “The entire idea of the New Year. Who needs a celebration, anyway? It’s just dumb, if you ask me. Setting off fireworks when some huge clock hits twelve is a bit pointless. And the countdowns? They’re always wrong! Let us just repeat ‘one’ until the clock actually chimes!” Her words were laced with sarcasm and annoyance. “I’m leaving. And you’re coming with, since I’m how you got here in the first place.” She started to walk back through the French doors, ready to make her way through crowds of intoxicated people. She paused abruptly, turning to face Caleb again. “How in hell were you going to leave before if I’m how you got here?”

“Taxi.”

“Disgraceful.”

He shrugged, unsure what exactly constituted disgrace about riding in a taxi. He was not given proper time to consider the (in her mind’s eye) copious culpabilities that accompanied taxi-going, for she had hastily grabbed him by the arm and, neatly varnished fingernails digging promptly into his skin (blocked only by the fabric of his suit-jacket and coat), pulled him through the doors. He felt quite like he had been drawn into a war zone, filled with uncertainties and menaces; he wondered if there would be casualties.

___

There weren’t. He was thankful. He was not thankful for the driving skills that had been graced upon Adalia de Lorraine, for there very well could have been casualties in a situation such as the current one that called her to the road. Pedestrians and woodland animals alike had better have watched out when she was on the road. If there had been, he hadn’t noticed. Although, he contested, she had been driving at such a speed that speed-bumps caused by pancake-shaped raccoons, White Tailed Deer, or even Smokey the Bears would cause even a jolt to the Volkswagen Bug’s passengers.

She hung a right at the next intersection, speeding through the turn so that Caleb had to brace himself against the door-handle to avoid getting pitched against the window. Dali’s driving did not take into consideration the laws of physics; gravity and momentum were working tirelessly against him, his insides churning as if they’d been put on spin-cycle in a washing machine.

Through the window, streets passed in blurs of light and color, growing more identifiable as they approached home; there was the bar where he would have otherwise spent the evening had he not been invited to Dali’s shindig, getting plastered and singing garbled Christmas Carols with other guy friends while only dimly aware that the Holiday had passed; watching the clock hit twelve with feigned, drunken enthusiasm; shooting pool and joyously losing. He let out a sigh, choking on it as Dali pulled another roller-coaster turn that had him wondering when the ride would be over. New Year’s had always been an occasion for uncharacteristic abandon, for festive misbehavior and recklessness. Instead, it had been spent sipping chardonnay– not guzzling beer–  and trying, with little success, to decipher the inscrutable thoughts of women while shmaltzing with tipsy do-gooder aristocrats and manufacturing wealthy pretensions he didn’t have.  

He was out of place in the elder de Lorraine sister’s mansion-like place, feeling naked in his tux with eyes sticking to his back like glue; he could almost hear their thoughts, the bemused whispers of “who is he?”- a young nameless stranger in a room full of dynastic progeny with no justifiable reason to be there, save for a vague and perplexing acquaintanceship with a de Lorraine girl who was as removed from the social circle as he was.

And he knew what they said now these days, about the girls. They weren’t like Richard; the de Lorraine blood had been diluted, and with sorry results. The elder was a recluse and in a questionable state of mind; the younger was a chef– she cooked for other people rather than the other way around–  and a potty mouth.

Dali grunted and slowed the car, pulling up to the curb outside his apartment. The lights glowed on the bottom floor, people passing by the windows and music playing; his landlady had thrown a little get-together for her bingo-buddies down at the senior home. Judging by the sounds of wheezy laughter, they were having fun, too. More fun than Caleb had been having, at any rate.

Dali was looking at him now, glowering at him through the darkness to try and draw is attention. “Are you awake, Whealdon?”

He turned to her, meeting her eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“This your place?” She leaned forward, squinting past him to study the building. “Looks like there’s a party going on. I guess you’ve got a busy night planned. You certainly are the party animal,” she said in a voice heavy with irony as she chucked him lightly on the shoulder.  

“No, not really.” He undid his seat-belt and opened the door, sitting there with his foot idling near the curb. He looked between Dali and his apartment building, feeling hot and uncomfortable even in the January chill. A question was forming, sitting heavily on the back of his tongue. Indecision –  his fancy word to disguise good old-fashioned cowardliness– was holding it at bay.

Dali undid her seat-belt and peered at him. “You want me to come in?”

He gritted his teeth, resenting his own transparency. The question was written all over his face, in the school-boy blush creeping over his cheeks and the top of his neck. What was this, anyway? The women he was used to, the Faith Rydelles of the world, didn’t bother to interpret the awkwardness of his body-language or appoint themselves to deciphering invitations. They were content to let him fend for himself, remaining the passive objects of his clumsy courtship.

“Yeah– yeah, sure, if you want,” he said, thus relieving himself of the responsibility of having issued the invitation in the first place.

She grinned widely and stepped out of the car, waiting for him to follow suit. When he did, she asked over the hood of the car, “They have booze?”

He frowned, baffled. “Who? Oh, you mean the party?”

“Yeah.”

“Well– I don’t know,” he said uneasily, not quite sure what she was getting at. “It’s my landlady’s party. She holds it for her friends at the senior-citizens’ center.”

She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Just answer the question.”

“Well– I suppose so, I guess. Mrs. Frankel always offers me a glass of wine during the Holidays, so I don’t see why not.”

“Good.” She started over cross the lawn. He stared at her for a moment, confused, before trailing behind.

“Dali, I mean– they’re old people. It’s a party of old people. I don’t think– ”

“Don’t think, Whealdon. Just follow.”
___

Caleb watched from the kitchen as Mrs. Frankel cut a fresh batch of coleslaw sandwiches and distributed them neatly over crumb-covered glass serving platters, smiling slightly and humming a vague holiday tune through her nose. The bingo players had a voracious appetite; no sooner had Mrs. Frankel set down the first set of sandwiches then they descended on them like vultures, snatching them up greedily before dispersing again. It was a cozy apartment, filled with doily-covered, overstuffed furniture and shaded lamps that shed a warm, golden light over a plush carpet that sunk beneath their weight and muffled the sound of their footsteps. Porcelain vases, containing dried or fake flowers, were placed on every available surface, along with an assortment of coasters to protect the heavily-varnished wooden furniture. He was surprised, though, to learn that the wooden bureau topped with framed photographs of Mrs. Frankel’s children also housed a well-stocked collection of liquor. It was clear that the party had discovered this early on and depleted the stores significantly. By the time Dali had caught on, the cupboard doors were hanging open and bottles had already been smuggled out and hidden beneath tables and in various corners, traveling around the room with knowing winks and furtive nods beneath the pleasant, oblivious gaze of Mrs. Frankel.

Dali, he’d noticed, had received one of these smuggled bottles several times during the course of its circuit around the room. She was flitting from place to place, striking up conversations and taking hands in the scattered card games, laughing with well-oiled good humor. She was surprisingly adept at Gin Rummy, as he’d observed in the course of the past hour or two. She’d won several hands and received her cash with the casual authority of a stripper pocketing tips. She’d take her winnings, nod, and it would disappear into one of the folds of her dress, invisible but surely placed where it could be retrieved at a second’s notice.

She was enjoying herself, elated and vibrant and not only from the drink– though surely that was a contributing factor. He was too was having a pleasant time, certainly more pleasant than spending the remainder of the night alone in his apartment, as he had been intending to do upon returning from the previous party. And Dali’s energy was contagious – the sound of her laughter made him smile for no other reason than hearing it. She fell among the seniors as easily she would a group of her own personal friends, and in return, they treated her as one.

“She’s such a sweet girl,” said Mrs. Frankel as she sliced more triangles of toast, the edge of her knife ringing dully against the cutting board. Caleb nodded and sipped his wine – the only drink that Mrs. Frankel had knowingly offered to her guests –  and looked again into the other room, watching as Dali slapped a hand of cards triumphantly on the table and raked in a pile of chips delightedly.

“Yes,” he agreed, inwardly musing over the choice of the word ‘sweet’. She was many things, but sweetness was not foremost among them. “I like her a lot.”

“Faith, too, is a very nice girl. I wonder where she’s gone to?” she asked, more to herself than to Caleb. She was never one to pry, at least not deliberately. He looked away all the same, feeling the familiar tightness seize him in the chest and the constriction in his throat that always accompanied mentions of Faith.

“Ah, yes. Well, you know how things are, Mrs. Frankel,” he said evasively. He didn’t want to talk about Faith, not tonight, and not with Mrs. Frankel, whose plaintive way of speaking always seemed to reduce the complications of his relationship to petty misunderstandings, trivial and undeserving of the painful way in which they’d ended things.

“That I do. It’s so hard for people to get along, even those who seem to be perfect for each other.” She raised her eyebrows, looked at Caleb knowingly. “Faith was perfect for you, I should think.”

“Maybe,” he said, more quietly than he intended.

“And that,” said Mrs. Frankel, finishing the last sandwich and dropping the knife with a clatter, “is why you don’t belong together.”

Caleb hadn’t expected that. It must have shown, because Mrs. Frankel smiled and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then she looked into the other room, smiling conspiratorially. “Her, on the other hand...” she dropped her hand, grinned with uncharacteristic mischief, and left with the sandwiches.
___

After winning another hand or two at cards, Dali had retrieved Caleb and dragged him into a corner, sandwich in hand and a satisfied smirk on her face. “I must have won, like, sixty bucks playing with those geezers over there. I love it. Sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” he said, smiling. “You’re really enjoying yourself, I think.”

“Oh, absolutely. What isn’t there to be happy about? Free liquor and easy money. But I think you’re going to have to drive me home, because, well-” she made a sweeping gesture down the length of her body, as if showing off her dress, “I want to save my car unnecessary pain. You, on the other hand, Wheedledy, are the picture of sobriety.” She smiled brightly.

“Never been one to drink much.”

“Certainly not. We need people like you in the world, though. Wet blankets. Sticks in the mud. Boring old farts.” The smile widened. “A good, steady crop of Designated Drivers to get us through the rough spots.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” The sandwich froze in mid-air, poised in her hand, and she looked at him with sudden amusement. “Look up, Whealdon.”

“Hmm?” He cast a glance upwards, seeing nothing but gingerbread molding and a plaster ceiling.

“Leftish. Over my head.”

Affixed to a string, so thin as to be barely visible, was a small flower of sorts that Caleb couldn’t identify. For a moment, it seemed to be levitating over their heads, the string so fine that at first he hadn’t noticed it. He studied it for a moment uncomprehendingly, squinting, before recognition dawned on him.


Reading his face, Dali laughed. “Brilliant, Whealdon. Yes, mistletoe indeed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb thought he saw Mrs. Frankel smile at him. But before he could turn, Dali’s arms were around his neck (the sandwich having magically been disposed of), her shoulders touching his own and her body against his as she kissed him with almost defiant intensity, as if she’d expected him to protest and acted before he could get the chance. He put his arms around her waist reflexively, kissing her back and smelling the liquor on their breath, mixed with her perfume, something faint and subtle that he’d noticed in passing without acknowledging its source.

They parted for a moment, her leaning against his arms to look up at him, searching his face for a reaction. He pulled her back, kissing her again and holding her close, taking advantage of this new fearless impulsiveness while it lasted.

Mrs. Frankel was definitely smiling.