Ellen A. Wilkin

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The Party Had Been a Roaring Success

The guests had trickled in at first
but by ten o'clock the place was swinging
The hors d'oeuvres were nearly gone by eleven
but the band was in sync playing everything from
Glen Miller to Brian Setzer to Candy Duffer
And the drink was still flowing.
Everyone had taken off their shoes by eleven thirty
and most were still dancing, cocktail in hand
My husband danced off, a martini with olives sloshing as
he bumped into Margaret, excused himself and then grabbed
the paper crown from her head.
He swirled, sashayed, as the band swung to Pennsylvania 6-5000
then he careened across the floor, somehow retaining hold of his glass
I lost track of him as the crowd Charleston'd and swung around the room
When the Glen Miller tune was done, a moment of silence then
The band leader stepped up to the microphone.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Hers and His, Theirs and Those,” he said. “Are you ready for the countdown?”
I looked around. Gregory and Margaret careened passed in each other's arms
Joel and Carl still swayed together under the sparkling disco ball to some tune only theirs
Linda and Marty half stood, half lay on a table near the band
lips already pressed together
Where was Ned? I looked in the direction I had last seen him.
“Ten!” yelled the bandleader.
 Bodies, mostly upright,
moving as if on an unsteady sea obscured all other objects.
“Nine!”
I ducked around other couples and stepped daintily over discarded jackets and boas
“Eight!”
There, against the wall and lounging on a period fainting couch that our hosts got
for a steal at an estate sale, I found him
“Seven!”
His eyes closed, the stolen crown perched on his head,
 and a now empty martini glass in hand.
“Six!”
“darling?”
“Five!”
His eyes popped open. “yes, moo-moo?”
“Four!”
“What happened?”
“I over estimated my ability to remain upright, he said.
“Three!”
I sat down beside him and leaned in.
“Typical,” I said.
He nodded. “yes,” he said.
“Two!”
“Good thing that is not a requirement,” I said
“One! Goodbye 2017!”
Then, dear reader, the ball dropped.
and I kissed him, full on his olive-soaked lips.