She woke up this morning at 7:22AM, feeling somewhat dozy. The day was slowly breaking, yet Paris was still bathed in a misty blue light that left the early city-dwellers in a snuggly state of sluggishness. Her room was gradually taking a faint shade of yellowish pink that was becoming brighter by the minute. There was something annoyingly intrusive about it, yet she sat in her bed and looked out the window. On the balcony a lonely pigeon was trying to make a meal of the crumbs of a pain au chocolat Alex and she had shared the day before.
It wasn’t snowing yet, she suddenly realized; what had been announced as the biggest snow storm in the history of Paris was now more than a day overdue. Still, it wouldn’t be surprising at all if it never occurred since Nostradamus’s 500 years old’s predictions were far more accurate than Meteo France’s.
She slowly became aware of the stillness of the place, and assumed that Alex had left already. She listened carefully for noises indicating that he would still be here but all she could hear was the sound of the dripping water coming out of the bathroom. She wondered if Alex would ever deal with his inability to say goodbye; after all, she would be coming back in a few months.
In spite of her weariness, she could feel that odd tingle of anticipation bubbling up from within. Something was going to happen, and it was making her feel intensely serene, more serene in fact, than she had ever been. She was going to be okay, she just knew it.
She noticed her Little Blue Book of Intentions on the floor; another New Year’s Eve, she thought as she grabbed the notebook and searched inside for last year’s page. Going through all the things she should have done, yet didn’t do between two New Year’s Eves was her yearly ritual. Pages, and years of dreams left unrealized, promises unkept and forgotten resolutions. The written proof of her inability to find herself. One day, she decided, she would burn it. The notebook was embarrassing. If she died right then, and someone found it, they would write on her epitaph something like, here lays Anaïs Amiel Delaître, who perpetually looked for her path, and always stayed lost. How pathetic.
She read the first few intentions listed under To Do in 2005, just to see how she was checking out. She would write her 2006’s intentions on the plane she decided, and smiled thinking that since she was going to spend New Year’s Eve somewhere between Paris and New York she wouldn’t have to explain to anyone why she never celebrated that day.
And still, even that small concern quickly faded away, and she beamed as a brief fluttering filled her stomach. In fact, none of it really mattered, did it?