The fireworks should have gone off right after the clock chimed midnight, marking the new year. But they didn’t. I only managed to fire them at 1.37am instead—I had an issue accessing the fuse.
Three pinkish-purplish streaks of sparkles shooting off in quick succession into a very grey but not fully black night sky over and across the rooftops of neighbouring buildings. By then the street below our terrace was quiet, no noisy drunks wearing party hats to be seen.
You were fast asleep by then but the wheezing sound woke you.
“Whoa! What the hell?” you yelled from the sofa in the living room through the terrace door.
“Hey! Happy New Year,” I said, the ‘Hey’ not as festive as it could’ve sounded, given the circumstances.
“That was ages ago,” you said, “And what took you so long, anyway? Firing’ ‘em stuff?”
“Lighting ‘em was difficult,” I said, “The thing to light was hard to get to. Sort of.”
“Shut the door, will ya? I’m freezing,” you said.
“Now I know how to get them going,” I said, “Wanna have a look?”
There was no reply, so I shut the terrace door and sat with the remaining seven fireworks.
Firing them was an option.
Watching the vapour of my breath was another.
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