Wave #71

My legs are hairy. I cough deeply and recoil. I don't have to know about the lack of splendor.

We play Rock Band for an hour. We get by on Medium and spend our money on pants and earrings for our sinewy, enthused alter egos. The clock shines 11:46 as we play the last forlorn notes of "Creep". We return to the couch.

Our parents chat with the TV tuned to the news channel. On the screen, sexy circus freaks dance with glitter somewhere in San Francisco. I pick up my crocheting. The hat is grey, a gift; I can tell him that I finished it in 2007. I race through the last stitches, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.

2008 comes through the open door, looks around, wipes his feet quietly. Weariness fades the features of his face. He likes the dark, and he lays down on the couch slowly, resting his head on my knee. They clink champagne flutes filled just to the point that they satisfy tradition, seeming not to notice him.

"Hey," I say.

He tilts his head back. "How are you?" he asks.

I feel fever in my eyes. I look at the smoldering coals in the fireplace, my ankle in its nubby sock, the tail of my cat as he retreats from human company. "Good," I respond.

He plays with my toes, looking at the screen. "Go with the flow, babe," he says.

I see the notes in green, yellow, red, the occasional blue. I forget what my fingers are doing and watch myself playing. I mess up, ace the chorus, mess up, manage a bonus. The plastic clicks add up.

My wrist aches. 2008 passes me a lavender soda. Lavender, of all things.