Twas the night before New Year’s and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
We partied from sundown to mid-evening only — by 9:30pm we were crumpled in an anti-climactic heap on the sofa at home. Somehow we managed to prop our eyelids open until midnight, when the firework roar nestled in our ears like the drumming of a monsoon downpour. The soundstorm thumped long and hard on the strip of skylight lining the bedroom; it rattled through the single-layer glass and wrapped itself
all ambient around the pillow where my head lay. It was delicious white noise.
Tonight we’re dining on donuts and the bubbly dregs, leaning face-first into the silence that inflated like an airbag this morning to protect us from whiplash. It’s delicious, too.