Her third Hogmanay. She thought she was as misplaced as the char inside her cylix. Besides, who else would drink such herbal tea instead of whiskey on a New Year’s eve in Scotland? Along with its vintageous, made-in-Greece cup that nobody nowadays would commonly own?
She kept telling herself she should’ve (or truly—could’ve) been in Dublin instead by now. Hours before that moment, she would’ve witnessed the sunset fall into the pine woods, a young farmer toddle down the hill along with his flock, and the windmill spin mildly as the sky turned duskier. A very typical, yet desirable kind of village of Ireland’s.
Instead of wearing black plaid watching the same Brit buildings from behind the same apartment window, contemplating all alone over again.
Now again; she wrote; dismissal of meetings, promises that weren’t really kept, repeated lines of arguing, communication that was never more than one-way texts, changes of plans here and there and everywhere, expectations that went wrong, lovers that lasted by chance,
all those anger she survived.
What a year of forgiving, she thought.
And moments she’d been solo when pushing her own limits. What was supposed to be broken that she mended by herself, what was likely to devour her that she denied—by such tact she even forgot how to gain, what was thought to be out of her capacity that she took charge and eventually managed.
She raised her cup of therapy, toasting for herself—her 365 days of bravery and dignity—along with bursts of the first fireworks of the night.
00:47 AM it was. Shining upon her was the last Catherine wheels, the kind of fireworks that wasn’t her favourite at all, but for one temporary moment it seemed pretty amusing. She’d think she was too sorrowful that the least thing likely to make her content, out of the blue turned out pretty pleasing.
She’d survive another year of no mercy.