DÉJÀ VU


It happens every New Year's Eve. It's always at the same restaurant. Twenty Cinderellas
sit at tables set for two. Their thoughts move like minutes, anxious for love to strike
before midnight.

Plates and wineglasses occupy their tables. Knives, forks, and spoons wrapped in napkins
wait for action. On each plate, a box of "Happy Nude Year" condoms. In each vase, a
single red rose keep the women company. The scene is the same each year, except for
fashion, aging, and newcomers. Only a few will toast the new year with a mate.

I'm one of these twenty women. Our faces are lined with screwed-up stories. I observe
the quiet desperation. I take out my compact and lubricate my lips. The same desperation
marks my face. The rose is in Prozac withdrawal.

It's 11:35 p.m. Two of the newcomer women are leaving. Their 20-something smiles
radiate. Their Prince Charmings did arrive before midnight, but how long will their lip
gloss, condoms, and euphoria last?

My rose is in striptease mode. It will be January 1st in a few minutes. No one has entered
the restaurant since those two women left.

I decide to leave. As I rise, the tablecloth slides. The plate, wineglass, and vase crash. The
knife, fork, and spoon scatter. The condom box and napkin bathe in wine. My rose lies
naked on the floor.