A (Very) Short New Year's Story.

"59, 58, 57, 56..."

Noise-makers, sunglasses, and other cheap, plastic party favors. Balloons bobbing up and down above their heads, the strings hanging down between them. The TV tuned in to a bright and lively city street filled with confetti. The last minute of 2013.

And here I am, sitting knees to chest in the corner of a near-stranger's kitchen in what I suspect is a puddle of dried beer. The cheering is getting to be too much; these sorts of things aren't meant for introverts. I glance longingly at the back door...are they too caught up in the excitement to notice me slip out?

"43, 42...."

I'm about to find out when my tipsy-as-hell best friend stammers over. "You're gonna miss the ball drop! Come on," he grabs my wrist to pull me towards the people.

"I'm not really into all that stuff, I told you that. I'll listen from here."

"35, 34, 33..."

"Like hell you will," he succeeds in dragging me closer to the crowd.

"Can't you see I'm in a shit mood?! Just...go have fun." I'm dangerously close to tears now. He pulls me into a hug, warm and heavy with cigar smoke. I relax against his chest. "This is dorky as hell, but...my New Year's resolution last year was to have my first kiss. And here we are, 2014, 19 years old. And I failed." My voice is frustratingly shaky, my nose embarrassingly stuffy. I have to look like absolute crap.

"24, 23, 22, 21..."

"Actually...there's 20 seconds left. Plenty of time for a kiss." I am speechless, my face buried in his jacket. I realize I'm probably covering him in snot and tears and pull out of the hug.

"15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10..."

"Maybe, but that would require someone actually WANTING to kiss me. And I don't believe that's out there for me anymore. Maybe some people are just aren't meant to be-"

"5, 4, 3..."

He pulls me close. He kisses me. Hard. His mouth is stale tobacco and gas station beer and the cheapest liquor money can buy, and it is heaven.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

All the music and cheers intensify. I expect him to stop, but he doesn't. He holds my face in his hands the way you'd hold a bird with a broken wing. We kiss long after the countdown has ended.

"The best kiss you've ever had," he laughs softly, our faces still close. "And the worst," I tease, joining his laughter.

And nobody notices us before we step apart. That was ours alone.

He takes my hand in his and we walk into the next room, and I'm not anxious anymore.

2014 is here.