The clock chimed ten. Desiree gazed at the laden table with satisfaction. She'd always been a damned good cook. Fantastic aromas filled the apartment and promised a wonderful feast. It was almost time to start.

The doorbell's loud ring broke the silence.

Desiree opened the door to her neighbor, Joyce.

"Hello, Desiree. I thought maybe you'd like to join us for some champagne at midnight? It's no good being on your own on New Year's Eve …"

Her words died out as she took in the room.

"Oh — have I interrupted you? Your guests must be arriving any moment. What delicious smells!"

Completely oblivious to Desiree's unwelcoming frown, Joyce walked over to a wall of photos.

"What a beautiful young woman — she must be your daughter. She resembles you. Oh, and who's the handsome man in these photos? He has to be gay. Men that good-looking are never straight." She turned to Desiree with a knowing smile.

"Those are pictures of my husband Jean-Louis, taken about thirty years ago."

Joyce was suddenly at a loss for words.

"Oh … er …well, I won't hold you up. I just wanted to be sure you weren't on your own. Have fun! See you next year — hahaha."

After the door closed, Desiree waddled over to the table and set it for one. She carefully lowered her large body into the comfortable chair and poured a glass of wine. With a sardonic laugh, she lifted her glass to the pictures on the wall. There was no daughter — she was the girl in the photos. "Here's to me, and here's to you, babe," she toasted, turning toward Jean-Louis's photo. By the time midnight came, all the food and wine would be finished. Jean-Louis always called at midnight on New Year's Eve.

While she ate, Desiree thought back to when her vivacious smile, svelte body and shapely legs had graced countless magazine covers. She and Jean-Louis had lived a rock 'n roll life with an endless round of sex, drugs and parties. They were the golden couple — beautiful and wild and young. They'd felt like gods.

Now they were losers — dinosaurs — the last of their era. All the beautiful girls and boys who had raced down the fast lane with them had long since crossed death's finish line. "We weren't supposed to get old," Desiree said out loud, pouring another glass of wine.

She and Jean-Louis separated when they couldn't stand seeing reminders of their mortality — wrinkles, sags, fat, and ugliness. It was too painful to acknowledge the disgust they felt when they saw each other. They sold the house and moved to different cities.

Desiree knew that when Jean-Louis called at midnight, they'd be talking to each other's photos on their walls. But for now, she'd talk to herself. She raised her glass again to the picture of her younger self. "Here's to you, babe," she said, and then swallowed quickly. The clock ticked on.

Writer/artist/designer Jonette Stabbert lives in the Netherlands. She has written widely on travel, motivation, humor, books and other subjects both online and in print. Her fiction has appeared in electronic and print publications, and several flash mystery stories will appear in the upcoming anthology Bullet Points. Jonette has worked as a columnist and content manager at websites for writers and is the editor of Scriptum, the online literary journal of the American Book Center in Amsterdam. She teaches creativity and writing workshops in the USA and Europe and recently organized a writing seminar in Amsterdam.

New Year's Resolution for 2003: "Work on my short stories every day and also get a first draft of my novel finished."

Copyright 2002 by Jonette Stabbert

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