I remembered everything leading up to the countdown.
Sue, the owner of Kiku, tried her best to make it seem festive with balloons and cardboard crowns. Maybe it was fun for all the other patrons. But for me, spending New Year's Eve at the same local sushi restaurant that I ordered take-out from twice a week was just sad.
I felt sad when Janie canceled on me last minute (food poisoning, she thinks).
Sad when I peeled off the nude bicycle shorts, a slimming base layer for the maybe-too-tight dress I'd finally worked up the nerve to wear, and slipped into a moderately clean pair of jeans.
Sad when I stopped to look at myself in the mirror on the way out. I'd actually paid someone (way too much) to do my makeup two hours earlier. And it was already melted and clumpy-looking around my eyes and the corners of my mouth.
Sad when I dragged myself up to the hostess stand and told Sue, "Just me."
"Of course," she'd said, smiling. "Bar okay?"
"Perfect," I'd said, forcing myself to smile back. It wasn't Sue's fault that I'd let myself buy into the New Year hype. Time is a social construct and nothing changes just because a calendar flips, but God help you if you're a single woman with no friends to buffer the impact when the clock strikes midnight.
Mercifcully, Kiku's Mai Tais are the size of fishbowls and they were on special, though I would have paid $100 apiece. I was halfway through my first goblet when I noticed him.
He was objectively attractive, though not my type. I'm into artsy jerks with nothing to offer, especially not a healthy, supportive relationship. This guy was probably a jerk and maybe he even owned some art. But judging from the sports coat and collared shirt, he didn't spend his time absentmindedly plucking a bass guitar while scrolling for porn. He decisively tabbed back and forth between girl-on-girl and his investment portfolio.
Like me, he was alone. Or maybe waiting for someone. He leaned against the back of his barstool, one hand resting behind his head, and took a small sip of what looked like whiskey while he watch the screen mounted above the bartender's station.
If he were a girl, I would secretly accuse him of spending hours in the mirror cycling through poses to find the exact angle that would show off his trim waist and biceps circumference through a semi-opaque dress shirt. These things did catch my attention, and if there had been any other unattended women in sight, they'd be stealing glances, too. But he wasn't practiced. He wasn't thinking about what he looked like.
He was drinking whiskey and laughing at the idiotic coverage of Times Square. (Seriously, why is that still a thing?) He was alone and having a great time. Meanwhile, I mourned the $75 (plus tip) I wasted on a failed makeover and watched him.
I wasn't close enough to know for sure, but I bet he smelled good. What was his grooming routine like? Luxurious, but simple. Effective. I bet every single one of his products was beautifully packaged and cost no less than $60. A collection of little pots and tubes of piney-smelling creams and pomades that he lined up on a bathroom counter that he paid someone else to clean once a week.
His apartment was sparse, uncluttered, a little cold. No pets–he didn't need the attachment, nor did he want to have to bother with sitting arrangements every time he traveled, which was a lot. (Minnie, my eight-year-old calico on daily insulin, was sweet enough, but she was one of the reasons I barely ever left town on the weekends. And for that, I resented her.)
I took the last watery sip of my Mai Tai and motioned to Billy, the bartender, for another.
"Any food?" he shouted over his shoulder as he started on my drink.
