Second Tuesdays: A Collection

stroke of midnight

December 31, 1912 - Tuesday

The cold air gave a frosty bite as Mary walked outside. The world was dark, but when one looked up, they could see a multitude of stars twinkling bright just for that night.

She didn't look up, though. She had no time to do so, because Mary was late.

Practically perfect people were never late, she thought sternly to herself. She had never lost track of time before in her life.

Yet she could have sworn the hands of the clock switched from 9:57 to 11:57 in the blink of an eye. Now she only had three more minutes to get to the place where she had promised she would be.

She didn't make promises lightly. She had promised Bert she would be at the park bench on the stroke of midnight, and so there she would be, simple as that.

Mary walked briskly through the streets of London. The streets were empty, yet the flats and small pubs were teeming with celebrating people. She could hear the boisterous laughter through the open doors, hear the songs and shouts and cheers.

She passed by quickly, focused only on her destination. Her heeled boots clicked on the concrete sidewalk. Normally, she would be at least a bit wary about walking alone at night, but in this instance, she was too hurried to care.

The icy wind cut through her thin scarf, and if she were less pressed for time she would have shivered.

Instead, she just kept on walking as quickly as she could. She didn't dare run, though. Practically perfect people never ran, especially in the center of London where anyone could see.

She felt a breeze at the nape of her neck, but she waved it away with a gloved hand.

She would get there on time. She had to get there on time.

Another breeze circled her wrist. She narrowed her eyes, and it had the good sense to leave her alone. She didn't need help. She would get there on time, she repeated to the wind.

She turned a corner, and the park was visible in the distance. Mary breathed a small sign of relief. She would make it.

A sharp clang cut its way through London. The Big Ben was counting down its way to midnight.

Another chime. Mary's heart quickened.

A third chime. She gripped her umbrella tighter, the parrot at the end squacking in protest.

Four chimes. The breeze came back now, twirling around her ankles and swishing her skirt around.

The fifth chime came and went. She knew what the wind wanted her to do, but she wasn't sure she wanted to do it.

Six chimes. She could hear the people in the park counting down, their voices elated and sounding slightly tipsy. But she couldn't see him. The park bench was still too far away.

Seven chimes now. The wind persisted.

On the eighth chime, she sighed, resolved.

The ninth chime drowned out her mutterings of "If I must, I must," as she opened her umbrella and let the breeze help her along the path.

It lifted her slightly off the ground, taking her swiftly across the park, all the way to the bench and the person waiting there for her.

On the tenth chime, the wind deposited her on the ground quickly and she would be lying if she said she didn't run, just a little bit, to close the distance between her and Bert. She'd deny it if anybody ever confronted her about it, however.

She barely heard the eleventh chime and the growing shouts of the crowd as her eyes met his, as she took in his easy stance and wide grin and mirthful gaze. She couldn't help but smile back.

The Big Ben chimed one last time. On the stroke of midnight, she pressed her lips against his.

There was nowhere else she'd rather be.