The television showed celebrations in Australia, Asia and Europe, and the crowds eagerly anticipated the countdown in Times Square. I lay on the sofa, distracted by my more abstract thoughts about the concept of time and its association with this ritual, even the concept of Gregorian calendar years based on Jesus’ birthday, which, according to some, hadn’t even occurred in December. I found it absurd for Jewish and Asian cultures to celebrate a day, which didn’t even exist on their calendars, with fireworks and paper horns.
I hadn’t noticed that the sound of one of those horns wasn’t being tooted on TV, but on the other side of our porch door window. A soft tap on the glass made me turn with surprise to see him.
Everett stood under the porch light, the horn curling and uncurling from his lips, a bottle of champagne in one hand.
I stumbled off the sofa in my rush to let him in. Once again, his chilled skin met mine as I plucked the paper horn from his lips and kissed him.
“Happy New Ear,” he joked.
“Oh, it’s gonna be happy, alright,” I said as I let him in, dragged him to my bedroom, where I peeled off his parka with a bit of the fervor from our first time together. 
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