A soft ballad floated across the emptying dance floor. Over the blue rinse set, bald pates and arthritic couples leaning into each other for support rather than sexy, slow dancing.

Walkers and canes rested in hands gnarled with age. Those too elderly or tired sat smiling, reminiscing of yesteryear, feet tapping to a beat long gone.

They'd been coming to this place for a while now.

Two school chums reunited for one moment in time each year. Born from a promise they'd made to each other when the world had gone crazy and war had landed on their doorstep. She remembered the first time clearly.

"We'll meet, next year, at midnight." He'd had to yell, over the band belting out a popular tune.

So handsome in that uniform, she'd nodded, lost for words. He'd tugged her onto the dance floor and they'd counted down to midnight, his arm over her shoulder, holding her close.

Then they'd gone their separate ways. Him to war. Her to the factory. But he'd been there, waiting, the next year.

A few years down the track, with the war over, their dance floor had erupted into a cacophony of relief, joy and celebration.

His hair, still short and sharp, a reminder of army life. A suit in place of the uniform. He'd given her a peck on the cheek and spun her in his arms. With her skirt billowing out and New Years greetings ringing in their ears, they'd laughed.

Throughout the years they'd met, a promise kept. Moments of memory swelled in her mind. His golden wedding ring. Her swollen belly. Photos of white picket fences and rose-covered cottages. Career highs and financial lows. Animals and blue-eyed children.

Last year, he'd pulled out his wallet and displayed photographs of his new granddaughter. Just like her mother, he'd said. As proud as a peacock, he'd been.

They'd sat next to each other, counting down to midnight, his arm over her shoulder, hugging her tight.

"We'll meet at midnight." And she'd nodded.

They'd carried on their New Years tradition for more than fifty years.

And now it was the eve of a new millennium.

Ten.

She pushed herself to her feet, a hand braced on the mussed tablecloth.

Nine.

She studied the room.

Eight.

And spotted a familiar face.

Seven.

He walked towards her.

Six.

She smiled.

Five.

He extended his hand.

Four.

She clasped it in hers.

Three.

"I'm sorry."

Two.

"How?" she asked.

One.

"Heart attack," his son explained.

Happy New Year.

A single tear slid down her weathered cheek.

Lita Harrington's writing has appeared in Inscriptions Magazine, The First Line and Australian Women's Forum.

She lives in Australia and can be found behind the keyboard developing her writing website, The WriteByte, http://www.thewritebyte.com.

Copyright 2002 by Lita Harrington

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