November needs him, but he can not be her keeper forever. He is not in love with her, never can be. The bells outside have ceased ringing and December kisses November on the forehead as a farewell, slips out of the house. The cab ride to the bar is quiet. Night falls over the sky like snow has done to the earth: a dichotomy of black and white. But entering the bar, all December sees is red. All he sees is her, in red. January has her hair pinned up into a tight bun, in a fitting wine-red dress that he already can guess is backless. Her lipstick stains the rim of the glass cradling a very dry and dirty martini. December weaves through the crowded bar to find a seat next to her. He orders a middle-shelf scotch, being sure to ask for a single cube. January smirks because some things never change, some things like a man's drink order, his lack of being able to put himself together, or how his heart pines for that of another whom he cannot have. They sip in silence. Sometimes the silence between two is enough. Liquid slips between lips and slides down the throat and sound never makes it out from the mouth as a response. In this manner, the two let hours grind away between them. All the while, other men approach January, attempting to make their moves. December eyes them with wrath. January finds this amusing and keeps coy with them, letting them get their flirtatious remarks in but still keeping them at a distance. She minds not the games; they are harmless and men will always keep sniffing their way about for someone new to bother. The year, though, is quickly drawing to a close. The lights in the bar dim, the music fades and the dialogues become a chorus of counting. 10. January sips the last of her martini. 9. December throws back a hefty gulp of scotch. 8. January stands up and smooths out the wrinkles in her dress. 7. December swallows nervously. 6. January looks back, extends her hand. 5. December takes it. 4. January leads December to the dance floor. 3. January stops and turns to face December. 2. Each takes in the other's face. 1. January leans in. It is the new year and January gives December a soft kiss on the cheek as confetti falls and champagne sprays. She smiles and walks away, not seeing but knowing that December is looking after her with his hand on his cheek, on the surface which her lips grazed. She cannot love him, December knows that. She is the future, always coming, always moving forward, and he is nothing but the past, something behind her, something to always look back at but never come to. At the door, January looks back and blows him one last kiss, and then turns to exit. As she steps out, December notices that her dress is, indeed, backless.
